


One Small Step

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Mildly Explicit, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sexual dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 42,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: Life is a journey. You can walk, jog, or even run, but it's much more fun to fly.In response to the "120 Bits of Random" challenge by SugarLandBabyGirl on Lunaescence Archives.





	1. Bottle [Bruce Banner]

**Author's Note:**

> Another day, another collection. This one isn't finished. I've only got to about forty. There's a bit of a shake up to my roster of sorts, but I'll just post pairings and characters as I post them so as to not fool anyone into thinking they're seeing Sam Wilson or Peter Quill anytime soon.
> 
> I started this in 2013 and haven't updated it in about three years now. Oops?

They gave him the baby. 

After all that mess, all that noise, all that blood, a nurse still reentered the room, handed him a bottle, and pressed the baby to his chest. It was like nothing at all had happened–at least until she quickly exited once again. If things were that bad _inside_ , Bruce hated to think about what would happen if he tried to leave. The hospital was probably crawling with guards. It would have to be, with a miniature Hulk inside. 

To be honest, Bruce had half a mind to chuck the miniature Hulk out the window himself. 

For a long moment, he looked at the infant’s face. The nurse had said to feed him, but waking him up didn’t seem like a good idea. Bruce wished that you were there with him, instead of being sewn up in surgery. Everything seemed topsy-turvy, with him alone in that hospital room, holding a sleeping, now-[skin tone] baby. 

Maybe, though, it wouldn’t matter if you _were_ there. He wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to leave. A Hulk for a husband _and_ a kid? You’d be crazy to stick around, especially after that horrific birthing scene. What Bruce had caused wasn’t okay, and he seriously doubted anything would be okay ever again. 

Before he could fully reenter that spiral of self-hatred, the door opened. Unthinkingly, Bruce tensed and drew his child to his chest a little closer. But it was only Tony, grinning as he stepped into the room. 

“What are you doing here?” Bruce demanded, once he was able to get his pulse back under control. He doubted the Hulk would smash the baby, but he might cause him to transform, too. Tony frowned. 

“Uh, visiting you and your newborn child. I believe that’s traditional? I _am_ the kid’s godfather after all.” 

Of course, Tony had to be sarcastic, even in that situation. Bruce didn’t have time for that. “No, how did you get in?” 

“I walked.” Tony's frown deepened. “What, was someone supposed to stop me? Did you declare me a persona non grata? I’m wounded.” 

“ _No_ ,” Bruce said more forcefully, and then remembered the kid. When he continued, he kept his voice quiet. “It’s just–after everything. I mean, everyone saw. The doctor–” 

“Works for SHIELD. I already checked. Fury was on this, just like everything else.” Tony slipped his hands into his pockets, shrugged, and walked over to the bed. “So there’s some extra security, but nothing stopping anyone from coming or going.” 

Slowly, Bruce nodded. A breath slipped from his lips. “I'm…relieved, I guess.” He shook his head and rocked the baby absentmindedly. “At least she’ll be able to leave. We just didn’t expect that he’d…be the same as me.” 

“We knew this was a possibility,” Tony pointed out. “Look what happened to Jennifer.” 

“But everything seemed fine," Bruce protested. "There weren’t any signs of this.” 

“Not much to get overly emotional over in the womb, big guy.” 

Bruce fell silent. Arguing with Tony was clearly a moot point. _He_ saw no problem with Bruce being the Hulk, so of course he wouldn’t have a problem with his own _godson_ having that same kind of power.The only option was for Bruce to leave. That was only way you could salvage any semblance of a normal life. Somehow, he had to make Tony understand. 

“That sort of ability in a child, though. I can’t–” 

“Don’t even start, Bruce,” Tony said sharply, and began to walk closer again. “He’ll need to learn to control himself, and there’s no one that’s going to be able to teach him as well as you. They need you. Him _and_ [Name].” 

Unfortunately, Bruce couldn’t really argue with that. As much as he wanted to leave, it was not as though he could abandon you and the baby. That wouldn’t be fair, not after everything you’d been through. If you left, he’d accept that, but he couldn’t force you into that choice himself. 

The baby yawned, drawing Bruce’s attention. He remained asleep–probably that first Hulk out had thoroughly drained him–and Bruce unthinkingly ran a finger gingerly against the baby’s exposed fist. “I told her she could abort him,” he said softly. “I always wanted a family, but…” 

Tony announced his presence by placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. When Bruce looked up, however, Tony’s gaze was already on the child. “She knew you wanted one. And she wanted one, too. It’s a little different, but it’s yours.” 

Bruce certainly couldn’t argue with that either. No one else could claim the baby as theirs, not after that entrance. For a long while, he and Tony just watched him sleep in silence. Then Tony seemed to decide that the danger of Bruce leaving had passed, and took the bottle from his hand. 

“Now, let’s feed this kid and then go visit [Name].” He waited until Bruce answered him with a nod before handing back the bottle. “You guys still need to talk names. If you’re stuck, I recommend Anthony. It’s the least you could do.” 

At last, Bruce chuckled. “I think we were leaning toward naming him after her father.” 

He expected Tony to protest, but he did not. Instead, Tony just grinned. “So you’re keeping him, then?” 

“Yeah.” Bruce said as he prepared himself to wake the baby up. Then, gently, he smiled himself. “Yeah. Of course.”


	2. Bottle [Bruce Banner]

For the place you were supposed to meet Tony before date night, his house seemed awfully vacant. You had to open the door yourself with your spare key, and when you stepped inside, the lights in the hallway flicked on as you walked toward the living room. No one came to greet you, not even JARVIS. With a frown tugging your lips down, you tumbled into one of the armchairs and looked around. You had to admit, you felt quite silly, sitting with your legs draped over an arm, wearing your semi-formal getup, with no one to talk to. The seconds passed, and you kept time with the vague jangling of your bracelets. 

After nearly five minutes, you couldn’t take it much longer. _Tony_ had been the one to call you up out of the blue for a nice dinner. If he hadn’t, you would have been content to spend your evening dancing around your apartment and singing along to the radio. You twisted into a more proper sitting position and practically glared at the ceiling. 

“Hey, JARVIS.” 

Your glower wouldn’t do much to affect him, but at least it made you feel as though you had some element of control over the situation. Maybe he’d see your frustation and decide to speak up. With your eyes shut, you counted down from ten–it took only until the count of five to get a response. 

“Yes, Miss [L Name]?” 

“Where’s Tony?” 

The pregnant pause that followed clearly indicated that JARVIS wasn’t hunting for Tony. He knew where he was, he just didn’t know how to answer you. A roll of your eyes, and then JARVIS answered: 

“He’s…having a private moment.” 

You couldn’t help the snort that rose from your throat as you stood. “Before we go out? I guess if it means he'll behave himself.” JARVIS didn’t reply, and you took that to mean he had no orders to detain you. 

With JARVIS fading back into silence behind you, you stepped onto the stairs to the basement laboratory. You did, after all, have a pretty good idea of where Tony was having his “private moment,” and you intended to interrupt. It was not so much that you wanted to berate him, however; more that you just wanted to see if dinner was still on. If not, you needed to find something else to entertain yourself with. 

As you meandered down the stairs, a voice drifted up toward you; apparently Tony had forgotten to close the garage door. You paused to peek inside the room, just to make sure that that wouldn’t answer your question and allow you to slip away unnoticed. The scene before you did not answer anything, though it did raise several questions _more_. 

One of Tony’s suits was sitting in a chair in front of a table clearly dragged down from the patio. Its face, for want of a better term, was tilted politely toward Tony, who was walking away, shaking his hands in the air. 

“No, no, no. That won’t do either.” Tony paused with his hand cupping his chin. While you debated walking back up the stairs, he snapped and turned back. “I’ve got it. Okay, let’s take it from the top.” 

The suit, of course, said nothing as Tony drew nearer. Your frown growing more prominent, you watched as Tony sunk onto one knee and gazed up at its mask. Another drawn out stint of quiet followed. Tony almost looked frozen, until he coughed. 

“[Name], I know this is really sudden and all. We haven’t been dating for very long–well, I mean, for _me_ it’s long; for you…probably not so much. But even with that in mind, I can’t imagine spending any part of my life without you now. Or, I can, but I like the idea of us being together a lot more. What I’m trying to say is, will you marry me?” 

Your heart stopped so suddenly that it nearly plummeted to your feet. Startled as you were, you could only gape as Tony got to his feet and scowled down at the armor. “Well, you don’t have to look like _that_ about it.” He ran his fingers frantically though his hair. “A simple no would have sufficed.” 

You couldn’t keep down a quick burst of laughter. Tony spun on the spot to see you standing in the doorway, grinning at him. “What are you doing?” you asked when he didn’t speak. 

“I–” Tony began, looking almost embarrassed, if Tony was capable of being embarrassed. “The suit and I are one!” 

Your grin only stretched wider and, slowly, Tony’s expression shifted into one of suspicion. 

“How much of that did you hear?” 

“The answer is yes, Tony,” you said with a shake of your head. He beamed. 

“Then I’m glad I practiced.”


	3. Venom [Phil Coulson]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written long, LONG before Spider-Man became part of the MCU, or any sort of Venom movie was on the horizon. I just thought it was a cute shout out at the time, which is why it has no compliance with the canon of either character. It does have a vague connection to the Andrew Garfield Spider-Man...but that's it.

“I'm seriously beginning to think giving this guy an invitation to our club is a bad idea.” Your voice echoed against the dank sewer walls, easily heard above the distant sound of running water. Although you kept your gaze on the large crack in the cement, you saw, out of the corner of your eye, Phil pause to take a look as well. 

“Yes,” he said calmly as he resumed walking. “That _is_ rather concerning.” 

You took one last look at the damage and then hurried after Phil. Considering all the disturbing stories coming from the area after that close biological attack a few months ago, and the unexplained _something_ that had crashed in the area from outer space shortly after, you thought it was best to keep close. Two guns were better than one. 

“What’s the big deal with this Peter kid, anyway?” you asked, mostly to fill the silence. Phil was always so professional that it made you nervous and far more prone to babbling than usual. As per the norm, he didn’t bother to explain right away. “I mean, he only stopped that Lizard guy, right? That’s not exactly Avengers material.” 

“Stark was under surveillance the moment he escaped the Ten Rings in the Mark I,” Phil said, still without looking at you. The beams from your flashlight and his danced against the grimy surroundings and a nearby ladder. “If he’s not an Avenger, he might be a threat.” 

You stopped short. When Phil realized that your footsteps were no longer following his, he turned around to look at you. “Phil,” you said around your sticky throat. “He’s just a _kid_.” 

“Maybe not anymore.” 

Phil swung his light over to another tunnel, and you allowed your eyes to follow it. What you saw made your heart beat even faster: the cement had been torn apart by what could only have been _claws–_ claws that were clearly somehow horribly _human_. 

“Oh my god. What's going on?” you whispered as you crept closer to Phil’s side. He nodded and flicked off his flashlight, leaving only yours to illuminate the intersection of the sewer tunnels. 

“We’re not sure,” Phil moved beyond you toward a torn apart grate. “Director Fury thinks it has something to do with the crash. Nothing was ever found, not like with Thor. Given some of our intelligence, it might be a symbiote.” 

“You mean…?” 

“Yes,” Phil said simply as he started moving deeper into the darkness. You groaned. 

“We are _so_ screwed.” 

Phil’s chuckle was loud enough that you could hear it even before you followed him. “Probably,” he said. “But when has that ever stopped us before?”


	4. Flight [Natasha Romanoff]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a shout out to some Adult!Reborn/Reader drabble I read ages and ages and ages ago. If I could link you to it, I could, but I haven't been able to find it.

“Okay, tell me again: What’s our cover?” Natasha’s low voice ghosted against your cheek; you felt her fingers dance up your stomach and toward your chest. It was difficult to think straight when she was making you _feel_ so much, but you supposed that was the point. If you could remember the story when you were distracted, you could definitely remember it when you were not. 

“U–Um.” That wasn’t to say that focusing was easy. You and Natasha hadn’t been in the same room together for nearly six months, and keeping your hands off of her was easier said than done. Director Fury had _said_ you got the private jet because it fit better with your cover, but you had a feeling it was more to keep any passerby from spotting the pair of you in any sort of scandalous position. “Y–You’re the…personal assistant of the CEO of a major fashion house in the UK and I’m your secretary.” 

You felt Natasha’s lips curve into a smile against your neck. “Good.” She did not, however, continue to grill you to make sure you knew the details. Instead, she began to kiss up your neck, until she found a spot behind your ear to start sucking. Your muscles tensed as you tried _very_ hard to keep your mind in the game. 

But Natasha didn’t ask you any more questions. When she was done with her work on your neck, she backed away only long enough to look you in the eyes, and then her lips latched onto yours. By then, your chest was heaving and your mind buzzing, but you didn’t want to disappoint her by getting some fact wrong on your first mission out together. 

“N–Natasha,” you panted when she at last stopped kissing you. 

“Hm?” 

“How’s this supposed to help the assignment?” 

“It’s not.” Natasha blinked at you through the dark. “I was just trying to make you feel like we accomplished something before we started making out.” 

“I–” you began in a hot blush, but you couldn’t finish the sentence–not before the plane gave a massive jolt and both you and Natasha tumbled off your seats. The floor hitting your back left you slightly dazed, though the adrenaline rushing through your veins had you quickly planning what to do in case of attack. 

Until Clint’s voice crackled over the intercom, “Looks like we’ll be running into some turbulence, ladies. I apologize for the rough patches.” 

In the dimly lit room, you just barely caught Natasha’s eyes flash as they rolled. Still, she was smirking, and a moment later, her lips were on your jawline. “Never mind," she breathed. "This will do just fine.” 

* * *


	5. Pusher [Clint Barton]

Even with the alcohol running through your system, you knew a bad situation when you were in one. The guy herding you toward the bar parking lot had seemed nice enough back at your table, since he came by to keep you company while your friends were out dancing, but now something just seemed _off_. 

“What’s the hold up?” he asked, as you hesitated again near the bar to throw a look at the dance floor. You couldn’t see any of your friends, desperate as you were to have one of them come to rescue you. The only person in the near vicinity was some drunk guy slumped over at a table to your left–and fat lot of good _he_ would do you. Your new friend, while you were thinking all of that, smiled and shoved you again. “Come on. I haven’t got all night.” 

All you could manage in response was a weak laugh. Were you drunk? No. But you were plenty buzzed, and it didn’t seem like the man was having much trouble shoving you toward the door. Once outside, there would be nobody to see you, and even if you couldn’t exactly think straight, you knew that you didn’t want that to happen. 

“You weren’t teasing me, were you, doll?” You shook your head frantically in reply and tried to dart around the man and back to the relative safety of the crowd. He just blocked your way, still grinning. “That wouldn’t be very polite, especially after I bought you a drink and all.” 

“I–” Finally, words! Well, one. But it was the beginning of an excuse, at least. “I need to get back. I’m actually driving my friends home and they’ll worry if I’m not there.” 

“You’re in no state to drive yourself. Let me drive you home.” 

“No, thank you. We’ll–We’ll call a cab.” 

He placed his hand on your shoulder and slid it slowly down your arm. His smile didn’t stop, but you tensed under his touch, mind racing uselessly. “Don’t be like that. We’re really hitting it off here.” The hand on your arm pushed you backward; you stumbled, but managed to remain standing. “Just a few more steps, doll, and–” 

“I think the lady said she didn’t want to go along with you.” 

Both your and the man’s heads whipped around, toward the table where the drunk guy had been slumped only minutes before. He wasn’t drunk anymore–and you’d hazard a guess that he hadn’t been drunk at all. His eyes remained utterly clear as they trained on your friend’s face. The drunkard smiled his own polite smile as he waited for a response. 

“You stay out of this,” the man said stiffly. The drunkard only smiled more widely and shifted. Suddenly, the docked bow he was holding under the table became _very_ apparent, and it was trained right at the man’s eye. 

“Let’s try this again,” said the drunkard calmly. “I think the lady said she didn’t want to go along with you. If you’re in such a rush to get home, why don’t you go ahead and leave?” 

The man seemed to rethink shoving you out the door. You remained frozen in place a few inches in front of him, heart beating rapidly in your chest as you watched. “You–You’re fucking crazy. Bet you can’t even shoot that thing properly.” 

“Maybe I am. You stick around and we'll definitely find out." 

He tapped several seconds off with his boot. Apparently your friend decided you weren’t worth the trouble of a possible arrow to the brain, because he made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, threw you out of his way, and walked out the door, muttering something that sounded a lot like “whore.” 

You didn’t move immediately; a part of you was still afraid he was going to pop back inside and drag you out to his car. But he didn’t, and slowly your muscles unwound. By the time they did, you realized that your rescuer had put away his bow, but was still watching you from his table. You met his eyes, but said nothing. 

“You all right?” he asked. You nodded shakily. “Need help getting home?” 

After the near-disaster you had only just avoided, was it any surprise that you quickly shook your head again? What if that guy had only rescued you so he could get you somewhere alone himself? You did not wish to be impolite, though, and, after a hard swallow, managed to rasp out: “My friends are around here somewhere.” 

He nodded. “Busy with their dates?” You shrugged; he pulled out the chair next to him and pointed at it. “How about I sit with you until they’re ready to leave then? I promise I won’t try to take you anywhere.” 

You hesitated. He seemed nice enough, and the thought of waiting somewhere alone again made you shiver. Without speaking, you walked swiftly over and sat down. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The man didn’t even look at you; he instead appeared very interested in whatever the bartender was doing. When several long minutes had passed, your voice and your manners returned. 

“Thanks,” you murmured. 

He turned to you with a smile. “It was my pleasure.”


	6. Enlightened [Steve Rogers]

Another day, another graveyard, another ceremony. Steve might have missed most of his old friends’ funerals while he was sleeping under several feet of snow, but the country was certainly making that up for him now. It seemed like there wasn’t a single weekend when he wasn’t driving his motorcycle somewhere to visit the tombstone of someone he had known, once upon a different time.

He might have taken the opportunity to properly mourn the lost, but he was far too busy. After all the pomp and circumstance wrapped up, there were always reporters that wanted to ask him questions, family members that wanted to express gratitude for what Steve had done seventy years ago, and young women that wanted autographs. It wasn’t in his nature to refuse requests like that, and so he often the cemetery long after he was schedule to be there.

That evening was no different. Frantic for some alone time, he waved the remaining stragglers off, and then remained where he was. The distant sounds of car doors slamming and limousines driving away filled the air as Steve began to walk sedately through the trees, in a winding path he could barely see through the orange light of sunset.

It pained him to think that he should have been buried there, too. He was starting to get used to living seventy years from when he’d last been awake, but visiting his past didn’t help him with not questioning his continued existence. Obviously he was a help in the present time, but he couldn’t deny that he missed his old team more than he could really articulate to anyone he knew. Natasha would try to sympathize. Tony would probably laugh. Fury would listen, then promptly sign Steve up for a month of psychiatry evaluations. None of that sounded appealing, so Steve kept his feelings to himself.

As he mulled over his continued loneliness, he heard sniffling. He came to a halt beside the grave he had come to visit that very day, but there wasn’t anyone there. A few moments later, he heard the noise again. Someone was definitely crying in the near vicinity.

“Hello?” he called into the little alcove of bushes nearby. “Is anyone there? Are you okay?”

He heard a woman whisper “shit,” and then you wandered out, blotchy-faced and looking sheepish. Steve wracked his brains as the two of you stared at each other, but he couldn’t remember seeing you anywhere before. Were you there for a burial being done elsewhere on the grounds? Had he interrupted your mourning? You smiled into the awkward silence.

“Hi,” you said.

“Hi,” Steve answered, frowning. “Are you all right? Are you lost? There’s nothing going around here anymore. I can help you find your way back, if you want.”

Your smile grew a little wider. Despite how sad the expression was, Steve could tell that it was genuine. “No, I’m in the right place. I came to visit my grandpa.”

“Your–” Steve glanced at the tombstone than back to you.

You nodded. “Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan. He was a good man.”

“I know. I worked with him back during World War II.”

When you looked back up at Steve, your mouth fell open slightly. “You worked with him? But that means–you must be…”

“Captain Steve Rogers,” said Steve. He offered you a hand and you took it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “Grandpa always said the sun shone out of your ass. Never stopped talking about how great you were, or what a shame it was they lost you.”

“Not too big a shame. They won the war just fine without me.”

“I think it was more _you_ they missed. Grandpa only died two weeks ago. Kept saying you’d get around to visiting eventually.”

“I–”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut in. “He knew you were busy. It’s nice that you came all the way out here. I’m [F Name] [L Name], by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Steve as you wandered over to give the grave a final pat. 

You turned back to him. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your hero stuff. Sorry I interrupted.”

Steve just nodded. After a last wipe of your sleeve across your eyes, you flashed him a final grin and then wandered back up the path. The silence rang in the air once your voice was gone. He found himself looking from the name engraved in front of him to your retreating back. Then it occurred to him: the past wasn’t completely gone. There was a relic, someone who knew one of his old friends, but she was quickly exiting Steve’s life.

“[Name]!” he called, rushing after you. You paused, and twisted around to look at him. “Do you want to go to dinner? We could talk about your grandfather.”

Slowly, another, warmer smile spread across your face. “I’d love that.”


	7. Cosmos [Thor Odinson]

Although he found your empty when Thor stopped by that night, he did not feel worried yet. He had a pretty good idea of where you’d got to, and it wasn’t very far. After one quick look around the room, he spotted your packed suitcase sitting next the large bed. That meant you intended to return. Thor then strode over to the balcony, where, sure enough, the doors were open. The curtains flapped in the breeze, and a smallish table had been drawn closer to the outside wall.

It cost him no effort at all to lift himself onto the roof above. He saw your eyes flick toward him as he straightened and walked over to sit down at your side. You smiled at him, but said nothing, and he allowed the quiet to remain for nearly ten minutes.

“You’re going to miss your goodbye feast,” he said, when he had enough of the silence. 

You snorted gently, but smiled again. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just probably going to be really late when it’s over, right? And I wanted to say goodbye to this view.”

Thor nodded and looked up at the dark, starry sky himself. Of the many wonders that Asgard had to offer, you had been most keenly interested in the constellations from the start. The first time you climbed onto the roof, it had taken him and most of the palace staff nearly two hours to find you. By the time they had, you had fallen asleep right there next to the sky. It became tradition soon after for the two of you to sit there and look at the stars until you fell asleep in his arms. He had to admit, despite the lack of movement the activity offered, he was going to miss it. 

Your sigh interrupted his thoughts. “We don’t have stars like this on Earth.”

“No,” Thor agreed. You frowned in such a way that made him think you were on the verge of tears. Quickly, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and drew you closer to his side. “Is there anything else you are going to miss?”

Without taking your eyes off the sky, you nodded. “I’ll miss having you around whenever I want you.”

“Would you like to stay here? With me?” Thor asked. The words were almost rushed, and if he was the kind of person to feel embarrassment, he might have then. He had thought of asking you several times during your trip, but it seemed too soon. Rushing things could be dangerous. His relationship with Jane had proven that. Seeing you so upset, though, had him wanting to fix things, and your staying was the only thing he could think of that would do the trick.

When you twisted around in his arms, Thor was quite certain that he had rushed things anyway. Your mouth opened and closed several times, then you smiled and shook your head. “I couldn’t do that to your parents.”

“They adore you,” Thor said. “My father was just asking why you were planning to leave at all.”

“I…” you began, sitting up a little straighter. Your eyes moved down to the surface below you. “Do you _want_ me to?”

“Of course. But,” he added, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no!” You bounced up and down a few times, threw your gaze back up at the sky. “I could see this every night?”

“Every night.” Thor grinned down at you and, slowly, you smiled back. “You’ll do it, then?”

“I’ll do it,” you said. A second later and you got to your feet. “I’ll still–I’ll still have to leave tomorrow, though! I need to tell my family where I’m going, do some more packing. Will that–Will that still be okay?”

The uncertainty on your face had Thor back on his feet as well. He walked behind you, and then took your hands. “I’ll go with you. I can explain things to your parents. Perhaps they'd like to visit as well.”

You grinned up at him with a quiet laugh. “We should probably go to bed, then. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell my father our plans and I’ll head that way myself.”

“Good.” You kissed Thor’s cheek and then slid down to the balcony below. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight. See you in the morning.” And, Thor thought happily, every single morning after that.


	8. Tulip [Loki Laufeyson]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a personal favorite of mine, even after all these years. :)

Human beings lived such tenuous, frantic lives. You found them and you loved them and before you knew it, they were dead. The Midgardian custom of burial only made it more obvious: they trapped their loved ones between sediment and stone. Loki, posing as an elderly Midgardian himself, couldn’t stop them.

And yet, though part of you remained there below him, he couldn’t _feel_ your presence anymore. All he felt was very foolish, standing there alone, clutching a bouquet of tulips. They weren’t standard grave flowers, Loki knew, but he didn’t care. Tulips had been your favorite flower, and somehow honoring that seemed important. Gone only for a week and he already felt as though bits of your memory were slipping through his weathered fingers.

The flowers would be the last he listened to. Once Loki gave–left–you the tulips, he was going back to Asgard. There was nothing for him on Midgard anymore. The children were grown, and the grandchildren headed that direction. He would be damned if he stuck around long enough to see them buried, too.

Maybe that was why, in addition to confused, he felt strangely…angry. His fingers burned white-hot around the bouquet clutched between them. He knew that he ought to feel sad, but instead he only felt trapped. You were gone; he couldn’t stay. But Asgard wasn’t exactly where he wanted to go, either. Thor was there, and though he and Loki had made up, he would still be a painful reminder of Loki's poor choices for at least a few hundred years more.

Because Thor had _listened_. When everyone pointed out that, while Thor might have loved Jane Foster with all his being, she would grow old and wither before him, Thor had listened. In the end, he picked Sif, who would age at the same rate and already knew Asgardian customs. Loki _hadn’t_ listened. Even knowing how much more mortal you were than he, he couldn’t imagine picking anyone from Asgard to be his partner, male or female, human or horse.

He had thought to make it easier with illusions. As you grew older, he did, too–or at least, Loki appeared to. His hair became magically gray and thinned over time; arthritis appeared to hamper his movements. But he had known, especially as you got more and more ill, that you knew that that wasn’t really him–that underneath it all, he was just as spry and handsome as he had been when you’d met him.

And you had grown distant. The children took over taking care of you. And Loki tried to make things better, to cough at the right times, to make his hands shake when he was feeding you soup. Nothing worked. You only looked tearfully at him in the moments before your death, and then you were gone, and there was nothing keeping him from looking like himself anymore.

“I _am_ sorry, you know,” he said quietly, as he placed the flowers next to your headstone. Obviously nothing happened when he did. Still he paused and looked around, as if half-hoping, in his grief, to hear your voice. After a long minute of hard silence, he took a deep breath and headed toward the entrance. It was a twenty minute walk to where Thor was going to pick him up.

As Loki walked away, he felt the remains of his illusions leaving him, drifting off like ghostly streamers. Away went the heavy wrinkles, the swollen joints, the thick, curling gray hair on the backs of his hands. By the time he reached the entrance, he looked exactly as he had on your wedding day: young, dark-haired, and upright.

Something stopped him at the gate. He hesitated once more. There was nothing in the air, no spiritual presence, but still Loki felt as though he couldn’t just leave you like that. So he turned back and looked back over toward your tombstone, where the tulips sat nearly-motionless in the gentle breeze.

“It was a nice life,” he murmured. “Thank you.”


	9. Bird [Phil Coulson]

The day began, and so, then, did the routine. You rolled out of bed, took a passing glance at the shower, and then shoved an old men’s button-up shirt over your head for clothing. Your bare feet made padding sounds as you walked down the wooden staircase and into the kitchen. Breakfast, as usual, was toast, eaten outside on the porch while you read the newspaper.

You deeply inhaled the fresh mountain air as you settled down at the table. Since you didn’t have to be anywhere, the sun had risen quite a bit before you woke up, but the birds were still chirping their morning song. It blended well into the background noise of the nearby babbling stream. The sound was calming, you supposed–or else, it was supposed to be.

_"Look. This isn’t a…suspension,"_ Director Fury had said three months ago. _“I just can’t have you on active duty right now. All I want is for you to go somewhere quiet, get your head back on straight. We have a safe house up in the mountains we’re not using. Why don’t you go there?”_

So things could be a lot worse. Getting fired wasn’t exactly out of the question. Senior SHIELD officers weren’t supposed to lose their heads seeing people get brutally murdered in front of them. Not, of course, that it had been just _any_ one that got stabbed right before your eyes. It was someone you cared about. But as far as most superior officers went, that wasn’t much of an excuse. Directory Fury really had gone out of his way to help you when anyone else would have kicked you to the curb.

The memory of that moment threatened to enter your mind again; you screwed up your eyes to prevent it from doing so. Director Fury had called just two nights ago to say you _might_ be able to return to work soon. Allowing yourself to dredge up those old images wasn’t going to get you a passing score on your next psychological examination. If you failed any more of those, you could kiss returning to your previous post goodbye.

You took long breaths until your muscles relaxed, and then opened your eyes. As you did so, a bird fluttered down to perch on the railing a few feet away. A smile worked its way onto your face; you tipped your empty plate over so that the crumbs fell to the floor. The bird hopped a little closer, cocking its head down at the food. Just as it seemed about to go for it, though, it stiffened, looked up at the doorway behind you, and flew swiftly away.

“Huh?” you said.

Slowly, you turned around. You weren’t sure what you expected to see, because you hadn’t heard anyone approach. An errant thought told you that maybe it was a stray cat, but before you could fully take that into consideration, you spotted the problem: a _person_ was standing there. Your gaze traveled quickly up their body-it was wearing a suit-to settle on their face, and you froze at once.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said with a mild smile. “I didn’t mean to scare away your friend.”

Your brain seemed to have completely stopped working. You tried to kick it back into gear, but it kept stopping on the same detail: Phil. _Phil_ was standing right in front of you, in the SHIELD safe house, looking just the way he had before he had died. Apparently your muteness did not go unnoticed, because he frowned and asked:

“Are you all right?”

“I’m–” Your throat closed around the rest of the words. He kept his distance, though his fingers twitched slightly, like he wanted to touch you but didn’t know how you would react. A moment later, and your brain chugged forward a fraction of an inch. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Director Fury told me to come, “Phil answered. “He said you didn’t handle everything that happened with Loki so well and that he sent you here. I came as soon as I could. There were things I had to take care of first. I’m sorry–”

But you didn’t let him finish that sentence. Just as he began to speak, you got to your feet and rushed at him, interrupting Phil by taking his face in both of your hands and kissing him as hard as you could manage. Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind too much. Not much time passed at all before he was responding, lifting you into the air so that your arms could encircle his neck.

You couldn’t be too sure of how much time passed like that–probably quite a bit, considering how out of breath both of you were when you broke away to smile tearfully up at him. Once Phil had got enough oxygen however, he grinned at you, and, you noticed, didn’t put you down.

“We’ve both got another week of time off,” he said, and you were biting your lips before he could continue, “What do you say the two of us go get reacquainted?”

“Yes,” was all you to say in response. Phil’s smile widened a bit, and then he turned back into the house and carried you up the stairs.


	10. Speech [Thor Odinson]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errr...yeaaaaaah. I really couldn't think of anything to do with this prompt and this character, so I wrote a completely random Hogwarts AU. Got really into it, too. I had a chart of every single character and how they were different in this universe, and some massively complicated Thor/Reader/Loki/Natasha story going on. Never bothered to write it out, though, because I'm not interested in AUs. Please enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

If you didn’t manage to break free of the throng of first years soon, you were going to get entirely lost. You just knew it. All that waiting and wondering about going to Hogwarts, and you were going to get lost before you even entered the Great Hall. The only thing keeping you from panicking was the feeling of your best friend’s hand pulling you forward. Even that was starting to become worrying. Thor kept his grip so tight that you thought he might pull your arm from its socket.

“[Name]! [Name]! This way!”

With one last, sharp tug at your hand, he pulled you with a pop out of the crowd. He took one look at your worried face and burst out laughing. You gave him a quavering smile in return, then looked behind you to gauge the reaction of those around. Your parents had warned you that most students would not appreciate your pre-established friendship with the Minister’s oldest son. At the moment, though, everyone appeared too nervous to take much note.

You were definitely among them. As easy-going and confident as Thor was, as much as he had nothing to worry about with coming to school, you couldn’t claim the same sort of calm. You had so many questions about Hogwarts that not even his smile could put you at ease. Apparently your lack of amusement at _his_ amusement was what finally tipped him off.

“[Name], are you all right?” he asked. As he let go of your hand, Thor’s mouth also formed its first frown of the evening. Normally you hated to let him in on when you weren’t feeling up to his level of cheer, but that night you needed someone to confide in. After another sweeping gaze up to the massive doors in front of you, you took a deep breath and answered:

“What if we’re not in the same house?”

After a moment’s pause, you chanced a glance at Thor’s face. He appeared relieved that that was what was bothering you, because he broke out into another wide grin and then took both of your hands.

“We will be.”

You tugged them free and looked down at your shoes. “But what if we’re not? I’m not brave like you, Thor! I’ll probably end up in Hufflepuff with Barton.”

“Then…so what?” A gasp slipped from between your lips as you looked back up at him. When he caught you looking again, Thor rolled his eyes and gave a shrug. “We’ll still be friends.”

Tears sprung to your eyes; you hastily wiped them away. You did not want Thor to think you silly. After all, he was the only friend you had, which was why you hated the thought of being separated from him. “Promise?” you whispered.

“Prom–”

“Quiet, all of you!” You started and looked around until you spotted a tall, stern-looking witch standing in front of the throng. Her gaze was sharp, and soon all of the talking died down. She narrowed her eyes until absolutely certain no more conversation would breakout, then straightened her shoulders and continued, “I am Professor Hill. Through these doors is the Great Hall, where each of you will be sorted into one of four houses. You will eat with your house-members, sleep with your house-members, and study with your house-members. They will be your friends, and your family. There will be no swapping places, and no reassignments.”

Butterflies filled your stomach at those words. But you didn’t know anyone else! Thor and his family were the closest neighbors you had growing up, and with a muggle mother, you hadn’t had the opportunity to meet any other wizarding children! She'd made you go to muggle school! You couldn’t be separated from Thor. You just _couldn’t_.

The doors behind Professor Hill opened inward. “Follow me,” she called, oblivious to any thoughts you might have had to backing out of the whole Hogwarts thing. Several other first years passed you before Thor nudged you forward.

“At least Father prepared me for all these speeches they’re giving us,” he said as the two of you walked into the hall. You tried to ignore the staring coming from the older students, especially since some of them whispered when they spotted Thor. At last, you came to another stop, right in front of a stool topped with a beaten-looking hat. Thor took your hand for a third time. “We’ll be friends forever, [Name]. I promise. Just think–we’re going to be real Hogwarts students at last!”

That time, your heart lightened considerably. You and Thor had dreamed of that night since you were small children, since you saw your oldest brother off on the train five years before. Even if Thor _did_ end up in a different house, surely someone at Hogwarts would be your friend–and Thor would spend time with you regardless. Just as the seam at the brim of the hat ripped open, you beamed and squeezed Thor’s hand before dropping it to move closer.

You were going to be a witch! And Thor would be there, right by your side.


	11. Sunbeam [Clint Barton]

The sunrise that morning arrived far too early in Clint’s opinion–far, far, _far_ too early. After being out on Hulk Search for two months, culminating in a very large, very damaging battle against some army nut-jobs until two that very morning, all he wanted to do was sleep. His arms hurt. His head hurt. Even his eyelids hurt.

You had other plans.

No sooner had he closed his eyes against the glare coming from the window than did he feel the bed next to him shift. He let out a groan, though he only put half his heart into it. After all, he hadn’t seen _you_ at all during those two months either. Still, Clint would have preferred for you to let him sleep at least until lunch. No such luck.

“Clint,” you murmured, and he felt your lips press once gently against each of his eyelids. “Breakfast.”

“Ninety more minutes,” he answered. Without waiting for you to disagree, he turned over and away from the light. Sometimes he forgot how much of a morning person you were. Your hand latched around his shoulder and pulled him onto his back once more.

“But it’ll be cold by then,” you protested.

“Cold?” Clint snorted, still with his eyes closed. “Cereal is supposed to be cold, [Name].”

“No, all the bacon and stuff.”

“Bacon?” At last, his eyes popped open. You sat perched above him, your knees pressed into the mattress around his hips, and smiled when you caught him with his eyes open.

“And toast!” you said proudly. You shifted away from Clint, who didn’t bother to watch you after you disappeared. That turned out to be fine, because you reappeared a moment later, having only had to grab a tray from the table by your side of the bed. “And waffles and orange juice–well, I guess the orange juice would be warm in that case.”

By then, Clint was awake enough that he felt more hungry than tired. When was the last time he had eaten? Before sleep could overtake him again, he pushed himself into a better seated position. You handed him the tray, and then peeled back the covers.

“Scoot over.” He obliged, though that made taking a bite of waffle difficult. By the time Clint managed, your fingers had already darted across one of the plates and snatched something. He heard the food crunch in your mouth.

“Are you eating my bacon?” he asked.

“I made it.”

“True.” Clint took a gulp of orange juice. “And to what do I owe the occasion?”

You snuggled in a bit tighter to his side, but thankfully left the rest of his bacon untouched. “You’ve been gone for so long,” you said. “I just…wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Yeah, and you knew I wouldn’t get up unless you had food.”

“That, too.”

Clint barked out a single laugh; he wrapped his free arm around your shoulder and kissed your forehead. “I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you, too.”


	12. Cups [Loki Laufeyson]

When you’d first announced your intentions to move in with Loki Laufeyson, exiled prince of a distant realm and self-proclaimed ruler of Earth, there had been a reasonable amount of hullabaloo. _“Did he use his magic stick on you?”_ people asked. _“How do you know he won’t slit your throat while you’re sleeping?”_ and _“What if he steals you away to his weird planet?”_

Luckily, all those worries were entirely unfounded. Loki was as comfortable a roommate as any number of people, and probably better at sex than most. The trouble was that sometimes he just didn’t _understand_ how to live with humans–and therein lied most of your problems with him.

“Shit!” you hissed as you opened the fourth cabinet door to find it empty as well. 

“What’s wrong this time, [Name]?” Loki drawled from the living room, without even bothering to look up from his book. You smashed your fists into the counter before stomping over to stand in front of him. At least that got his attention.

“What’s wrong?” you demanded. “What’s wrong? Loki, we have guests coming in thirty minutes and we don’t have a single cup in this apartment!”

“We have cups,” he answered, and you could tell he was having trouble not rolling his eyes at your predicament. “What else would you call the containers we drink out of?”

“Dirty,” you answered, gesturing to the sink. It was bursting with plates, silverware, and, yes, cups.

“Then why don’t you _clean_ them?”

“I don’t have time! They’ll be here any minute. Besides, it’s _your_ turn to do the dishes.”

“Princes do not do dishes.”

“They do when they're living on _Earth_ with their _girlfriend_ and not the _Asgardian palace staff_.”

His eyes bored into yours, but you were used to these sorts of staring contests. Slowly and distinctly, you lifted your arms and crossed them over your chest. Finally, he lifted his eyes and tossed his book into a heap onto the cushion next to him.

“Fine,” Loki breathed, then closed his eyes. Frowning, you watched until they popped open again–just as a set of chalices materialized on the counter behind him.

“What?” you said, as you rushed over and picked one up. You squeezed; it certainly _felt_ solid enough. “No! No, no, no!”

“What is the matter _now_?” Loki asked. 

You lifted the chalice. “Your dad said no magic! That was one of the conditions of you getting to stay here!”

“He is not–”

“I don’t care if you were adopted, Loki!” you nearly shouted. “I just care that you’ll get taken back to Asgard for breaking the rules! Which means no magic cups, okay?”

“Fine,” he said again, that time a lot more shortly. A second later, and your fingers smashed into each other; the cup had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Loki stood and lifted his arms before allowing them to fall to his sides. “Then what do you suggest we _do_ about your pressing cup problem?”

“Help me wash the dishes?” you suggested. “I’ll wash if you’ll dry.”

“…Whatever.” He brushed passed you into the kitchen and turned on the sink. You joined him a minute later, and soon Loki’s bad mood had passed. When he took the fourth cup from you, however, he added, “But getting palace staff isn’t a bad idea.”

“The answer is no, Loki.”

“I thought you’d say that.”


	13. Bulletproof [Natasha Romanoff]

In the end, when the sirens stopped and the oppressive silence started, you supposed that getting shot could have turned out a lot worse. Sure, it hurt like an absolute bitch, and, yes, you’d be out of commission for the rest of the Tesseract fiasco–but at the very least you weren't _dead_. As an added bonus, Natasha had paused long enough to help clean up your wound.

“This is deep,” she remarked as she straightened. Her eyes lingered on the hole at your shoulder, then moved up to your face. “You’ll need to get the medical staff to look at it.”

“I would, but the medical staff is a _little_ busy.” You moved the shoulder up and down, then winced. “Ow.”

Natasha spent nearly a whole minute watching you. After that, her face disappeared as she ducked down, only to appear the next moment with gauze in her hand. She remained as terse as ever as she began to set some of the stuff over the bullet hole; you assumed she had no further plans to speak until she added:

“You should be more careful.”

You couldn’t help but snort at that, though the throbbing in your skin and the pressure Natasha was putting on your wound probably helped. “Says the woman that just took on the _Hulk_ barehanded.”

Without looking up from her task, Natasha blinked. “I didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Yeah, Tasha. I got shot on purpose. How’d you guess?” As usual, she didn’t crack a smile at your barb. You weren’t sure why you thought she would, since things were more serious than “usual”–whatever that meant to SHIELD agents. “Did you at least manage to retrieve Barton?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, and then sat back from you. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Well…” you trailed away into a pout. “You could kiss it. That might help me feel better.”

She got up and left the room without even bothering to respond. You watched until she vanished, presumably to check on Barton, and slumped with a sigh.

Maybe next time.


	14. Nudity [Tony Stark]

Everyone was leaving. The stupid battle was over, and everyone was leaving. You knew that you needed to follow, that not doing so would attract attention before the worst of it even happened, but you couldn’t bear to move. Instead, you just stood there, still in your own suit of Iron Man armor, praying that the rest of the team would leave without noticing you hadn’t bothered to take off your gear.

They did not.

“Come on, [Name],” Clint called over his shoulder. “You’re gonna miss shawarma.”

Stupid after battle tradition. Stupid Clint. Stupid Tony for getting you into the situation to begin with. Everything at that moment was completely stupid. Had you been a more vindictive person, you might have actually tried to blast someone. As it was, the most you could manage was saying:

“Um…you guys…go ahead. I’ll catch up to you.”

“Oh no.” You did not have to watch the video stream of Tony in your helmet to tell that he was smirking. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Steve paused on his way to the door. “What deal?”

“[Name] and I made a bet,” Tony explained. “She lost.”

“What was the bet over?”

Immediately, a blush overtook your face. The rest of them couldn’t see that of course, but it still made you feel worse. God, if Tony told them, you really would have to blast him. The terms of the bet were even worse than the consequences–and those were bad enough. Thankfully, he seemed to sense explanation would somehow cross the line, because when he spoke again, he didn't bother.

“That’s not important right now,” he said with a wave of one hand. “What is is that [Name] has to go through the entire suiting up and down procedure in the nude.”

Every single person in the room froze. Seeing as how the lot of you had just finished battling a giant, homicidal entity from space, you thought the reaction was a little much. Unfortunately, you couldn’t really tell them that, as you seemed to have lost your voice. After nearly two minutes had passed, Steve was the first to speak up:

“The _nude_?”

Clint grinned. “You mean, right now–”

“Yes,” you said at last, in what might have been mistaken for a wail. Why couldn’t they just _leave_? Why did they have to stick around to watch? You might not have minded Tony sticking around–he quite regularly saw you naked, after all–but not the rest of them. Their presence certainly hadn’t been in the terms of the agreement.

“Can you actually…do that?” Steve asked, sounding uncomfortable. 

Clint burst into laughter. “Oh, I’m sure you can do that. My question is, is it comfortable?”

“Not very,” you snapped. Thank God for the stupid mask; at least it prevented them from seeing how cherry-red you’d gone. Unfortunately, your color only darkened the next second when Clint’s smirk widened.

“Then why don’t you take it off?” Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw the video stream of Tony in his suit flash a smile as well.

“Yeah, [Name], why don’t you take it off?”

Despite your trepidation at being seen in the nude by your coworkers and friends, it was starting to get difficult to answer that question. Your suit pinched you in all the wrong places, and all that jostling from the flight probably meant your breasts were bruised beyond recognition. Leave it to Tony to decide sex appeal was more important than safety when it came to bets.

“For god’s sake, they’re just nipples,” Natasha said, then threw her hands into the air. “I’m going to eat. If the rest of you want to ogle [Name]’s nethers–”

“Wait, you’re not wearing underwear either?” Clint asked. At that point, you lost your ability to speak again. Your eyes darted back and forth across the room, desperate either for escape or a sympathetic soul. They found only Bruce, who kept his face carefully blank.

“No,” Tony answered for you. “That was part of the deal.”

“I’m leaving,” Natasha said flatly and turned to do so. “Are you coming, Clint?”

Although he looked almost disappointed to leave, Clint turned as well. “Yeah, I guess I better.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bruce said quickly. Steve didn’t even bother to announce his exit; he just rushed off after the rest of group. Once their footsteps faded, the room became almost eerily quiet. You could still feel the heat radiating off your face, and focused on that until Tony broke in:

“Well that wasn’t nearly as fun as I wanted it to be.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said as you took your helmet off. A moment later, and you stepped onto the platform to get the rest of the suit off. “You should get changed too. They’ll want to know why we’re late to what I anticipate will be the most miserable after-battle shawarma dinner I’ve had to date.”

“Somebody’s grouchy,” he said, still with a smile in his voice. “Don’t make bets with consequences you can’t handle next time.”

“Whatever,” you said. You were already at your locker trying to find your bra when Tony’s hand grabbed your arm to stop you. Needless to say, you weren’t in the mood to play with him then, and turned to tell him so. Before you could, however, he spoke himself:

“Listen, about dinner…”

“What?”

“I can understand if you’re not willing to go tonight–and I can think of a few things we could do here instead that don’t involve you bothering to get dressed.”

You watched him for a minute or so, feeling your face soften as you looked up at him. Sure, Tony was an asshat, but at least he wasn’t making you go to dinner after that little show. With a sigh, however, you picked up your your shirt and pulled it over your head.

“Only if we don’t make any bets this time around.”

“If you want to do it the boring way,” he said.

“The boring way is all you’re going to get for a while,” you agreed, and then headed toward the stairs–without bothering with your pants. Needless to say, Tony followed.


	15. Telephone [Bruce Banner]

Another afternoon, another twelve hours to spend in the house alone. When you had taken the teaching job at the local high school three years ago, getting off at three had been a bonus. Now that there was no one to spend that extra time _with_ , it was nothing but a burden. Even as you took a long sip of your favorite hot beverage and stared out at the orange forest beyond your yard, you could feel the sinking suspension that it was getting to be time to move on.

You’d miss your students, obviously, and the steady paycheck; the feeling of the small town and the way the winter air smelled. But you needed more than what you had had to offer. Like a smaller house, maybe. As beautiful as New England in the fall might have been, it seemed silly to stick around when all you needed was a bedroom and bathroom for yourself. The children’s bedrooms upstairs were going to remain empty, and you felt even lonelier sleeping in the master bedroom on your own.

Sighing, you picked up your grading pen and looked back down at the stack of essays sitting on the desk. You needed to pass them back at the beginning of next week, if you wanted to give your students a chance at revising them before the grading period wrapped up. Boy, weren’t you sick of reading them, though–weren’t you sick of _everything_.

Just as your tired eyes found the title on the next sheet, the phone in the hallway blared. You frowned and and squinted at the tiny black letters on the paper, trying to concentrate through the noise. No one called you–not unless they were telemarketers or students from your old alma mater wanting money. They always called back again; there was no need for you to get up to answer.

A few short minutes later, and the answering machine gave its immediate and unexplained beep. A moment of silence followed and then: _click_. Whoever it was hung up. The tension in your shoulders gradually worked away in the quiet that followed; several marks were made on the paper.

The phone rang again. You started, and your red pen hit the table with a clatter. Your heart beat violently in your chest as you waited, perched tensely on your chair, for another ring. It came. Cautiously, you got to your feet. Maybe it was the principal. Maybe it was a student’s mother. But for whatever reason, the fact that whoever it was seemed both highly intent on hearing from you and not at all desirous of leaving message made you nervous. Your breath shook as you stood, padded into the hall, and picked up the portable phone there.

“Hello?” you said.

“Hi,” said a man on the other end. “Is this the [L Name] residence?”

“I’ve never heard it referred to as such,” you said, leaning against the wall and trying to get your nerves under control. Technically, the answer was yes, and the house _was_ under your name, but it belonged to someone with an entirely different surname. You certainly hadn't paid for it. The man cleared his throat.

“Uh, okay. But, um, is there a [Name] there, by any chance?”

“Who wants to know?”

“May I speak to her, please?”

“Look,” you said angrily, “I don’t–”

“It’s–Bruce.”

The phone slipped from your hand and hit the wood floor. “Shoot,” you whispered as you bent down to pick it up. “Shoot!”

“[Name]?”

“Y-Yeah,” you said quickly as you returned the phone to your ear. “Bruce? Is that really you?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Are you–Are you okay? What’s happened? I haven’t–It’s been _years_. I thought–I thought you were _dead_.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve–I’ve been around. You know,” in your mind’s eye, you could see Bruce tugging his hand through his hair, “getting shot at, running from the military, that sort of thing.”

“Where are you?” Bruce didn’t answer. You could tell that he hadn’t hung up, though, because you could hear him breathing every so often. No reply came. “Bruce?”

“Well–” He began, then stopped, then took a huge breath. “It’s kind of rude to show up at someone’s house uninvited, but I didn’t really think about that. That is to say, I sort of–well, it’s not _my_ house, but I forgot and–”

Bruce continued to ramble on, but you hardly listened. Your bare feet smashed against the floor as you raced to the front door. Your trembling hands took several minutes to unlatch the lock, but when they had, you threw the door open. The man standing outside looked up as the door banged against the inside wall.

Your eyes met; you dropped the phone again. The arm holding Bruce’s cellphone slowly dropped as well. He blinked, then said:

“I am so sorry.”

And what could you do, but throw yourself into his arms and cry?


	16. Backyard [Steve Rogers]

“You know, you don’t have to do this.”

The words were out of Steve’s throat and into the hot summer air before he could prevent them from escaping. Just as you had every time that he had said them in the days following up to Tony’s backyard barbecue (in some suburban house he'd purchased just for the occasion), you rolled your eyes. Above the fence rose the clamoring sound of the rest of the team: pool water splashing, hot dogs grilling, conversations babbling. _Your_ voice was the only thing he cared about.

“Why would I not want to do this?” you asked for what you probably felt was the sixteenth time. Somewhere, Tony shouted at Clint to quit stealing food, but you neither reacted nor commented, too intent on Steve’s response.

“They’re…strange,” he said at last.

“I know,” you said. “I’ve seen the footage.”

“Not–like that.” He held up his hands, and you eyed each in turn, lips pursed. “They’re excellent people. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

That was not strictly true. You could take care of yourself. It was not _you_ Steve was worried about; it was himself. All the teasing he had endured, all the catcalls and wolf whistles, upon announcing that he was bringing his girlfriend to the cookout were about to begin again, but this time with you standing right there. As if sensing his trepidation, you strode away from the fence to cup Steve’s face between your comparatively smaller hands.

“I’m not going to breakup with you just because your friends are a little weird,” you said, as you patted one of his cheek. Then you headed back toward the barbecue. Not exactly soothed, Steve reached out after you, but you had already opened the gate to reveal to the rest of the team that you had arrived.

“Hey, Cap!” Tony said, his grin more for Steve’s benefit than yours. Bruce stood beside him, looking quietly amused. “What took you?”

“Steve was just warning me that you were all a bunch of psychopaths,” you answered, practically beaming. .

Tony matched your grin. “Oh, I _like_ her.”

“Fantastic,” Steve muttered under his breath, but in part, he was relieved. You settled down on the cement next to Natasha just as easily as if you belonged there, and soon she had lifted her head from her sunbathing to speak to you:

“You must be [Name].”

“My reputation precedes me,” you said as you took her hand. “You must be Miss Romanoff.”

She threw Steve a look–he was still standing awkwardly by the gate–and smiled one of her unreadable smiles. “Natasha,” she said. “But thank you.”

“Yeah, you better not make that mistake again.” Clint swam up to the edge of the pool. “She _is_ an assassin, you know.”

You laughed. “And you must be Clint.”

“What’d you do? Give her all of our SHIELD files?” Tony demanded when Steve finally took a seat at one of the dry chairs near the grill.

“Nah,” you said. “I just stole them.”

“Did you really?”

You nodded. Steve covered his face with one hand. “[Name].”

A moment later, he felt your fingers in his hair. Then you clambered into his lap to smirk back up at Tony.

“Prove it,” he said. Steve held his breath, hoping you wouldn’t, but soon you were beaming again.

“Well, you’re Tony Stark, son of Howard Stark, who worked for SHIELD originally back during the Second World War. You’re dating Pepper Potts, and you destroyed every single one of your suits during an attack this Christmas, making you, essentially, useless.”

Steve opened his eyes to see Tony nodding as if impressed, and Bruce looking almost worried. “All things Captain Rogers here could have told you himself. You didn’t really steal anything, did you?”

“Well…” you trailed away and shook your head. “No.”

Tony snorted and then handed you a paper plate with two hot dogs on it. “Figures. Boring Steve. Boring girlfriend.”

If you had not been sitting in his lap, Steve might have stood up and picked the fight Tony so clearly wanted. As it was, all he could do was level a glare at him. “Stark–” he began hotly, but you cut him off by shoving one of the hot dogs into his mouth.

“It’s okay, Steve,” you said while he chewed. “I _like_ being boring, if that’s the way you like things. Good enough?”

He took the rest of the hot dog with a sigh. “Good enough.”


	17. Glowing [Thor Odinson]

Odin but you hated when Thor left the palace. All the action, all the comporting with old friends _he_ got to enjoy and you did not. _You_ wanted to go hunting, too, but what else could be done? _Someone_ had to stay and look after the realm, and, as its queen, the duty fell to you. That did not mean you had to enjoy the task, however, and you definitely did not. Trying to solve petty disagreements had never been your forte, something Thor had been well aware of when he’d married you.

“My Queen, surely you do not intend to listen to such apparent lies!” said one of the palace stablemen, who seemed to believe one of the courtiers had stolen a set of horseshoes from him.

“What have I to gain by telling tales?” the courtier demanded. Your head throbbed at each word, but apparently those were their closing arguments, because each man looked up at you questioningly. You lifted your eyebrows as you looked down, trying to decide. This task was made much more difficult considering you’d barely paid attention while the two of them were talking.

“Do you have an eagle for my table?” you asked.

“An _eagle_?” the stableman asked, his eyes popping. 

Next to him, the courtier spluttered until he managed to spit out, “I hardly think that is _applicable_ to our dispute, Your Majesty. Perhaps you have not been–”

“Mother!” A voice from the end of the throne room drew your attention toward the doors. They were just closing behind a dirty little boy that rushed down the aisle as soon as he saw you looking at him. The remaining crowd drew away, perhaps afraid of contracting something, but you recognized him, and opened your arms in welcome. Once he reached you, your son threw himself into them, smelling strongly of blood and the outdoors. “I did it, Mother! I managed it!”

“You?” you asked, smoothing a lock of filthy [color] hair from his forehead. “ _You_ killed a bilgesnipe on your own on your first hunt?”

“Yes!” He grinned up at you. Beneath all the gore and dirt, Ragnarr was practically glowing. You laughed and wrapped your arms around him–though only shortly, before his stink got the better of you.

“And your father said you could come straight here without bathing?”

“Well…”

You chuckled before he could offer an excuse. He was still young, after all, and you were grateful for the interruption. “Where _is_ your father?”

“Seeing to the horses,” Ragnarr said quickly, apparently relieved at not being sent away.

“And Uncle Loki?”

“Speaking to Sleipnir.”

“Of course he is.” Without you having to ask, Ragnarr hopped off your lap and allowed you to stand. “Was your bilgesnipe large enough to feed several?”

“Our family, at least! More, with Father and Uncle’s game.”

“Then we shall have a feast. The King has returned. He will listen to your complaints–tomorrow,” you announced to the crowd at large. When several protests sounded, you rolled your eyes and set off toward the doors, your son at your heels. Even with the muttering that followed you outside, you felt content to leave them all behind. You had more pressing matters at hand–like getting Ragnarr a bath.


	18. Chainsaw [Tony Stark]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o/ It's not really a chainsaw, but I'm not writing something new just because of that! o/

The entire lab smelled of heat and sweat. The scent might have been overwhelming, had there not been something else to take your attention away from it: the horrible grinding of a SawzAll against metal. Sparks flashed through the air as you pressed the blade harder into the chain below you. Even with your goggles on, you could hardly see. All of your senses seemed to pool onto your tongue, the taste of fear in your mouth.

“Stop! Stop! God, stop!” came a very faint voice to your lower left. 

“What? Oh. Oh!” you shouted, shutting the reciprocating saw off. Your too-loud voice rang through the air when you added, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tony said. You hopped one rung down your ladder and tottered, one hand still gripped around the saw’s handle. “Careful!”

You steadied yourself the best you could and eyed the chain latching Tony’s arm to the ceiling. “Not a scratch. What’d you make this out of?”

“Metal,” he snapped.

“Hey, _I’m_ not the one that created a berserker suit of armor and had to chain myself to the building inside it so it couldn’t get loose–forgetting, in the process, that it could lock me in.” The blank face of his armor considered you in silence, and with good reason. You rarely mouthed off to your boss, unless the CEO of his company was around to back you up. It had been a long day. You scoffed. “Forget it. Get out on your own.”

You hadn’t even got off the ladder before he cried, “Wait!” Scowling, you clambered awkwardly back up. “I’m sorry. You’re being helpful. I’m just frustrated…with myself. And I really have to pee.”

“I thought you had a–”

“It’s full.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so.” Tony lifted his hands; the chains anchored to the ceiling rattled. “I just asked you to stop because you were getting a little close to my fingers. I panicked. Can you blame me?”

“No,” you sighed. “But it’s been forty-five minutes. I don’t think I can keep this up without taking something of yours off.”

“Just a little more. You’ve almost got it.”

You stared at him, and then snorted a second time.

“Fine.”

“Wait.”

“What _now_?”

When you looked back, the armor’s face was turned contemplatively (maybe; it was hard to tell) toward yours. “You’re really very pretty. Did you know that? I never noticed before, but in this lighting–wow.”

“Gee, thanks.” You hoped he wouldn’t notice how fast your pulse was racing, especially given that that wasn’t exactly a compliment. “Is this how you won Pepper over?”

“Actually, I destroyed her professional reputation and then ditched her on a balcony."

“Great,” you said as sarcastically as you could. “I can’t wait for that last bit.”

He tugged again at one of the chains. “I’m not ditching you, babe. I’m all yours.”

“Let’s just get you out of there. You’re getting loopy.”

“I’ll be free. You’ll still be pretty.”

“One can only hope,” you muttered–and that he did not hear you above the returned shriek of your SawzAll.


	19. Pioneer [Bruce Banner]

It didn’t take a super genius to figure out when Tony Stark was up to something. Therefore, Bruce, being smarter than your average super genius, figured it out. Breakfast wasn’t normally a big affair; Tony did not typically rush Pepper and Happy off to work; and he definitely did _not_ usually smile so much while going up the elevator.

Most of the time, Bruce tried to ignore these telltale signs of mischief, because, most of the time, he didn’t want to _know_ what his best friend had in mind. He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked pointedly away. When Tony started whistling, Bruce knew it was no good. He wet his lips and turned back to Tony to ask:

“What’s going on?”

Tony stopped whistling. “Why would anything be going on?”

“Because you’re enjoying this elevator ride a little too much.” Bruce smiled. “And you were supposed to go into work with Pepper today to help her iron out the kinks.”

“I just thought you’d like to see the remodeled lab.”

“And I can’t do that without you here?”

As the lift pulled to a stop, Tony slapped Bruce on the back. “Not today.”

That could not be good. “Tony,” Bruce started, but his friend had already stepped out into the hallway. “Tony, I’m not getting out of this elevator until you tell me what you’re planning.”

Tony’s head reappeared in the doorway. “Yes, you are.”

Before Bruce could protest, Tony grabbed his hand and yanked him from the lift. Bruce pulled himself free momentarily, but didn’t run off. He knew he had lost. He did not have to enjoy it. As Tony led him through the maze of cubicles and offices and laboratory equipment, Bruce endured his mutters of “got to be around _somewhere_ ” and “supposed to be here by now” with a scowl.

After a few annoying minutes, Tony finally stopped in front of an open door. Bruce caught only a whispered “a ha” before Tony rapped on the wall and stepped into the room beyond. A woman whirled around to look just as Bruce followed him inside.

“Mr. Stark!” you said, looking almost pink-faced with relief. “I’ve been hoping you’d be by. I know you said you left a note detailing my instructions, but I can’t find it, and I’m really sorry, but–”

Tony held up his hand and brought your tirade to a screeching halt. When he lifted his eyebrows, you swallowed, then nodded. “We’ll get to that,” he said. “But first, I brought you someone.”

“Brought me…?” Your eyes followed Tony’s pointing finger. Upon spotting Bruce, they widened. “Oh!”

The alarm bells went off in Bruce’s head. Sensing this, Tony moved far enough away that Bruce could not hide behind him. “Dr. [L Name], Dr. Banner,” he said. “Dr. Banner, Dr. [L Name].”

“I, um, I, uh, that is to say–” Bruce could think of no soothing words or excuses and yet you advanced. Over your nearing head, he could see Tony smirking. In the next moment, you stood right in front of Bruce, giving him no time to shoot a death glare at him.

“ _You're_ Dr. Bruce Banner?” you whispered.

“Um…” He nodded. You blinked once before letting out an ear-splitting squeal. Straightening, Bruce blinked. He was used to people making loud sounds when they met him, but sounds of delight were not one of them–and yours was unmistakable. You snatched his hand from at this side to pump it, grinning all the while.

“I can’t believe I’m really meeting you! I’ve been following your work since I was in college. You’re the entire reason I went into nuclear physics. I mean–you’re a pioneer in the field. You’re such an–an inspiration!”

“Thanks,” Bruce said slowly. You gazed up at him with the pink color even higher in your cheeks. A moment of awkward silence followed–Bruce had very little experience with people complimenting his pre-Hulk work and had no idea how to respond–and then you gasped.

“This is going to seem,” you turned back and snatched a large a backpack off the floor near a stool, “really stupid, but I just can’t believe I’m meeting my own personal hero. Do you think you could give me an autograph?”

He waved his hands instead of taking the pen and journal you offered him. “I really didn’t do anything that great. Don’t feel obligated to…” Bruce trailed away as the color started to drain from your face. “Sure. Sure, I’ll give you an autograph.”

That brought your smile back, and Bruce could feel himself smiling right back when he returned your things to you. After you'd put them back instead your pack you let out a sudden, “Oh no!”

“What? What is it?” 

“Mr. Stark is gone!” Bruce, looking over at where Tony had been standing prior to your introduction, found that you were telling the truth. The room was small enough that he could not be hiding anywhere. Without meaning to, Bruce chuckled.

“Yeah. He does that.”

“But he never told me what I needed to do to get started today!”

“Somehow, I think he planned that part, too.” You did not look soothed, and continued to turn on the spot as though expecting Tony to pop out of a cabinet with a to do list. “Look, he’ll probably be awhile. You want to go get some coffee until he deigns to show up again?”

“Yes,” you said more quickly than Bruce thought a tongue could work. It didn’t take more than twenty seconds for you to grab your backpack, lead him from the room, and start talking a mile a minute once more. Somehow, Bruce found he didn’t mind.


	20. Railroad [Clint Barton]

Every day, the sun beat down on your head during your lunch-hour walk, and every day as it did, you thought the same thing: this assignment was _really_ weird. It shouldn’t have been. You spoke Spanish and Portuguese fluently enough to communicate with the people of the small South American country in which you now resided. You could blend into nearly any environment SHIELD asked you to. All of that added up. Hell, even your cover as a typical housewife made sense. It was your fake marriage that was throwing you off.

Soon the sounds of rattling traffic and honking bicycles faded into the distance. Replacing them were the shouts of some man far ahead and the clanking of hammers against iron. When you rounded the last corner on your route, the familiar sight of the railroad met you, along with its legion of grimy workmen bustling about its tracks.

This was Clint’s cover: a former migrant-worker, newly-wed and moved to the area, desperate enough for work to take up setting down the country’s burgeoning railroad system. SHIELD had caught wind of an uprising thought to center around the man that managed the work. Two and a half years later, however, and it became clear that no one at Clint’s company had the slightest intention of overthrowing anyone. A waste of a mission, but at least you knew you'd be headed back to America soon. 

A few workers smiled and greeted you as you sauntered past carrying a basket of food. You had, over the course of time, become something of a mascot–or maybe just a mascot for Clint. Not every one of the men there had a wife willing to walk ten miles just bring them lunch. Then again, not every one of the men had wives that would have gone crazy if they had to stay inside cooking and cleaning all day. You didn’t know how _real_ housewives did it. Keeping a home was far more difficult than anything you had to do for _your_ job.

Five minutes later, you found Clint, even though he looked nearly identical to all the other workers. You stood a few feet away until one of the men around him looked up to see you, grinned, and elbowed him in the ribs. Clint glanced up himself and practically beamed when he spotted you.

“How’s it going, darlin’?” he asked in Portuguese, sauntering right up. You held up your basket wordlessly, and Clint took it as he kissed you on the cheek. “What did I do to deserve a girl like you? Hey, Duarte! I’m taking my lunch break!”

The man standing on a platform overlooking the tracks nodded at Clint. Seeing this, Clint took your hand and led you off towards a group of makeshift wooden tables. You settled yourself on top of one, next to the basket. Clint sat down on the bench and started to eat. Your hand still tingled where he had touched you and you hated yourself for it. Clint wasn’t _really_ your husband. The hand holding was for the benefit of everyone watching, not you.

Hell if it didn’t make your heart beat a little faster anyway.

“You seem down today,” Clint remarked around a large mouthful of a sandwich. If you hadn’t been so well trained, you might have blushed. As it was, you simply smiled at him.

“I guess I just miss my family,” you answered. It was not as though you could tell him the _truth_. Even back at the house, you had to stick to your covers in case anyone was listening. Maybe that was why things had got so far out of hand. Spend over two years making dinners and love to a man and eventually your brain decided that it might not have been entirely for show. But even if there was a point in time where you could flat out say you weren’t really Clint’s wife, you still couldn’t tell him that you _wanted_ to be.

“Well, shouldn’t be too much longer.” His eyes remained fixed on your face. You reached out one hand and twiddled with a bit of his hair. Clint smiled. “Dear old Dad says we’ll need to move back by the end of the month.”

“You told your boss yet?”

He shrugged. “Figured I’d pull it out last minute. I don’t really want to give these guys extra warning.”

“Extra warning? For what?”

“Come on, [Name]. You haven’t noticed? You’re pretty popular around here.”

“Meaning?”

Before he spoke again, Clint took your wrist and pulled you into his lap so that he could kiss you on the forehead. You giggled, though it made you more sad than happy. _‘Stick to the part,’_ you reminded yourself. _‘Fury isn’t paying you to fall in love.’_

“Meaning I don’t want anyone doing anything to keep you here,” he said. “I intend to take you with me.”

“How romantic.”

“And,” Clint lifted up your hand, stared at the ring there, and then looked you in the eyes, “I intend to make this happen, too. If, of course, you're amenable.”

He knew? And he was okay with it? Again, you found yourself speechless. Clint clearly understood, because his smile twisted into a smirk as he stood and sat you on your feet. Before you could choke out anything intelligent, he slapped your butt and strutted back to work.


	21. Barracuda [Steve Rogers]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is a long-time UNfavorite of mine...
> 
> Anyway, as a goldfish mom, I am morally obligated to inform you that, prior to purchasing any fish, you need to make sure you have the proper aquarium set up _and_ have cycled your tank for at least thirty days. Please don't kill your new fish by following the example of this incredibly stupid one shot. Thank you.

There came a time in every child’s life when they decided that they absolutely _must_ have some sort of animal companion. This was typically resolved by buying them a puppy, or perhaps a cat. Most kids would _jump_ at the chance to have a dog, right? 

Steve’s daughter was not most kids.

To be honest, this should not have been much of a problem. She wanted a fish, and fish were much easier to take care of then dogs. Steve would not have to walk the puppy when his five-year-old did not want to, nor spend an hour every day cleaning up poop in the backyard. When you told him to go find her a goldfish “or something,” he didn’t think much of it–until Claire ran through the door and made a beeline for the largest tank in the store.

“Daddy! Daddy, over here!” Claire called. By the time he made it to her, she already had her hands and face pressed into the glass. “What’s _that_?”

“Uh…” Steve peered into the tank. Inside sat only one fish: a large silver one, pointy, with several sharp teeth. All he could tell her was that it was not what she was taking home. Before he could inform Claire of this, however, a helpful store employee popped up to explain:

“That’s a barracuda, young lady. Carnivorous little guy. Someone caught ‘im fishing the other day and didn’t want to keep him or eat him.”

Claire gasped. Steve felt the dread in his stomach grow as her smile did. “Daddy, I want this one!”

“That one?” The fish stared at Steve. Steve stared at the fish. Before he could see more of its teeth, he took Claire gently by the shoulder and steered her toward the rest of the fish. She let out a high pitched whine as he tore her away from the barracuda, but allowed him to tug her toward the goldfish. “How about one of these? They’re pretty.”

Immediately, Claire started to cry. It wasn’t a quiet, muffled sound either. No, she began to bawl, right in the middle of the pet store. Steve pulled her into a hug, looking desperately about for a cause for this behavior. Only after he looked at the tank did he see the very many dead goldfish sitting at the bottom of the tank being picked apart by their brethren.

“Alright, alright. No goldfish.”

As his daughter continued to sniffle, he took Claire’s hand and led her toward a tank full of tetras. The crying stopped as she took in the darting fish. Steve smiled and knelt down next to her. Claire’s mouth fell open a little. “You like these?” he asked. She nodded. “We can get a few. They come in schools and–”

“No!” Without waiting for Steve to react, Claire ripped her hand from his grip and rushed back over to the barracuda. “I want this one! They were gonna eat him!”

Steve sighed as he stood and walked back over to her. The barracuda flicked across its aquarium several times, then came to light in front of Claire. Even the fish seemed to be telling him that all was lost. “Claire, honey, I’m not sure…” She started to cry again; the employee from before lifted his eyebrows as Steve caught his eye. Feeling uncomfortable, Steve rubbed the back of his head. “They eat other fish.”

“I don’t care! Thomas is coming home with us!”

“Thomas?”

“That’s his name!”

She glared up at him with those eyes that looked so much yours, and Steve knew he didn’t have any choice. All he could do was pray that you didn’t mind taking an enormous, biting fish into the family. When he looked away from the ceiling, it seemed to him that Thomas was smirking at him. Maybe it was just all the teeth.

“You want me to get him ready to go home, sir?” asked the man by the tank.

“Yeah, I…guess,” Steve said with a shrug. Claire grinned and returned her attention to the fish. “And a few of those goldfish for his dinner.”

“Right away, sir.”

Twenty minutes later, Steve and his daughter left carrying everything Thomas would need to thrive in his new home. The only problem? _She_ got to carry Thomas. Steve got to carry the goldfish–and he knew that _they_ weren’t going to be having a very nice evening.


	22. Hollywood [Phil Coulson]

Oh, to finally have a vacation from saving the world! You might have felt excitement anywhere, from a tiny bed and breakfast in New England or a hole-in-the-wall motel in Oklahoma. What you got was a dozen times better: Hollywood. The sights! The sounds! Ward’s constant whining!

“This is ridiculous,” he said for the fifteenth time that morning. By then, even the others were getting frustrated; Skye and Jemma went as far as to roll their eyes. Only May seemed unperturbed, and lifted her eyebrows at the statement, as though she agreed. She probably did. Ward meant to ruin the trip, and he was succeeding. Who else but Ward would take offense to the team eating a quiet breakfast on the street instead of talking strategy?

As usual, Phil didn’t seem the least bit annoyed. He smiled as he swallowed a mouthful of cinnamon roll, then asked, “What’s ridiculous?”

“This,” Ward answered, gesturing toward the nearby Chinese Theater. Phil looked over at the building and the throng of tourists surrounding it before settling his gaze back on Ward.

“Well, they did only finish rebuilding it after the bombing a year ago,” he said mildly. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

“No, I mean us being here. You think so, too, don’t you, May?”

May didn’t answer. In her place, Jemma took a deep breath.

“We all need a little break, Agent Ward,” she said, though she looked a bit nervous about voicing such an opinion. Luckily, Skye came to her rescue:

“Yeah. We’re not all robots like _you_.”

“I’m sorry I have a little something called work ethic,” Ward snapped.

“I’m sorry the rest of us don’t care to work until we collapse.” Skye half-stood as she said this. Ward followed suit. As per the norm, you allowed your eyes to flick back and forth between them. Those two were always at each other’s throats, and it only got worse when the former didn’t have work–or the BUS’s training equipment–to distract him.

“Guys,” Leo said tiredly. “Do you have to bicker _now_? It’s only nine in the morning and–”

“Only?” Ward repeated, rounding on Leo. Leo lifted his eyes heavenward, as though to ask why he had deigned to get into the argument in the first place. You wondered as much yourself. “ _Only_? If we were actually doing our jobs, you wouldn’t say ‘only.’”

“Actually, I-I probably would.”

Ward eyed him for a long moment, then settled back into his chair with an annoyed snort. “Whatever. We all know we’re only here because of [Name] anyway.”

“ _Me_?” you echoed indignantly around a mouthful of muffin. “What did _I_ do?”

“ _You’re_ the one that wouldn’t shut up about Hollywood.” He waved his hands in the air with mock excitement. “If you hadn’t kept talking about how nice it would be to take a vacation, Coulson never would have agreed to it.”

Your cheeks burned; you decided to focus on your plate rather than any one member of the team’s face. The relationship you shared with Phil, while not exactly on again off again, was a lot more tentative than it had been prior to his pretending to be dead. Ward was only poking at you out of temper, of course, but he left you little way of responding in kind. You _wanted_ to fire back with a reference to walking in on him and May in a rather intimate position. That, however, would likely only get you in more trouble.

“And now,” he continued, “I have to sit here on my ass for the rest of the weekend, and everyone will be upset with me for not playing happy tourist.”

“Who said anything about sitting on your ass?” Phil asked. 

Ward covered his eyes with one hand. “Walking around squealing about celebrities does _not_ count as work.”

“I know.” Finished with his food, Phil began to dig around in an inner pocket of his jacket. He did not search long before drawing out a folded sheet of paper upon which Ward’s eyes fell immediately. “Just because there’s nothing official going on in Hollywood doesn’t mean there won’t be. We’ve got a few trickles of information that sound a lot like something we’ll need to look into. Isn’t that right, Skye?”

“Huh? Oh!” Skye nodded vigorously. “Yep. Trickles of information. Almost rivers. Agent Ward should go dam them up before the common people get ahold of them. Wouldn’t want just anyone finding out. That would be unhelpful or what–”

“Thank you, Skye.”

“…ever.”

Ward’s eyes narrowed. His hand reached for the paper, but Phil tugged it out of reach. “I was hoping you and May could do some recon for us. I know it’s not much, but it’s work.”

“We’ll do it,” May said. She took the paper from Phil, got up, and walked briskly away. Ward watched her go, then sighed and stood up. He left without another word. The rest of you blinked after them until they rounded a corner and disappeared.

“Okay, I don’t know _what_ that paper had on it, but it was nothing _I_ told you about. There’s been no activity in this area whatsoever,” Skye said after a very distinct pause. 

Phil sighed as he stood and pushed his chair in. “I know.”

“Then what was all _that_ for?”

“For getting rid of Ward. He’s right about why we’re here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy our break.”

“Fitz and I _were_ hoping to check out the nearby museum,” Jemma interjected hopefully. 

“Go.”

She squealed, squeezing Leo’s shoulder. Even he looked excited, especially when Skye got up with them. “I’ll go, too. Give these two a little,” she winked exaggeratedly in your direction, “alone time.”

The three of them raced off, leaving you blushing in their wake. Phil waited patiently for you to get over your embarrassment and to your feet. “What,” you asked, “was all _that_ for?” All Phil did was smile and gently take your hand.

“For getting rid of the rest of them,” he said. “Now come on. I know a great place we can go for lunch.”

You did not bother to point out you’d only just finished breakfast. Protesting, it seemed, would do you no good, after all the work Phil had put into not only getting SHIELD to approve the vacation, but also making sure the two of you were alone. So instead, you smiled, too, squeezed his hand, and followed him down the street.


	23. Grenade [Natasha Romanoff]

The result of being in the thick of battle was often that you didn’t fully think over your actions. Living through the fight was, of course, typically your main objective. Unfortunately, sometimes people you actually liked got caught up in things, too, and somehow that managed to override your self-preservation instinct. When you and Natasha got caught breaking into a weapons warehouse in Moscow, no one was particularly surprised to find you in the hospital afterward–least of all Natasha.

She didn’t come visit for the first few days, and you couldn’t really blame her. You didn’t remember anything after taking that grenade while she was distracted. The fact that you’d made it to medical attention indicated that she had made it to safety and dragged you along with her. As calling her would probably earn you nothing but radio silence at best, you did your best to distract yourself by chatting with the rest of your visitors in between the constant stream of doctors and nurses that came by to run tests.

One nurse was only just leaving when she nearly ran into Natasha outside the door. To the nurse’s credit, she recovered quickly. “Oh. Are you here to see Miss [L Name]?”

Natasha kept her eyes very determinedly away from the side of the room housing your bed. The look she sent your nurse had the latter blushing, though you doubted Natasha noticed that much. She was too busy making you feel bad.

“If,” Natasha said loftily, “I won’t be getting in the way.”

“Of course not! I’ll just leave the two of you alone.” She opened the door wide enough for Natasha and her bouquet of flowers to get into the room. The nurse's eyes dipped a little as Natasha wandered over to your bed, then she gave you a congratulatory smile and left.

Natasha’s lips pursed the moment she heard the door click shut. You blinked steadily up at her, wondering how best to begin. In the end, you figured opening up hostilities so early wasn’t in your best interest. You smiled.

“Those for me?” All she did in answer was snort and drop the flowers unceremoniously in an empty glass by your bedside. “Those’ll die without water, you know.”

“Can you not,” she said, voice already full of annoyance, “with the flowers right now?”

“I just don’t want your hard earned money to go to waste,” you said innocently. This was the wrong response, mostly because Natasha knew as well as you did that you were only feigning innocence. A ragged breath tore from her lips as she grabbed a nearby chair, wrenched it up to your bed, and collapsed into it.

“You’re an idiot,” she snarled.

“What about this time, pray tell?”

“This. Getting in the way. Do you honestly believe that I am so bad at my job that I need you to get killed for me?”

“You were distracted,” you snapped right back. “I saved your life.”

“I didn’t need you to save it.”

“Well, Natasha, maybe I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known you’d bitch at me for it later.”

“That’s a load of crap, [Name].” Some of the fight left Natasha. She sighed and allowed her shoulders to relax. “You knew I’d bitch.”

“Yeah, you caught me. Guess I’d rather be bitched at than attend your funeral.” You grinned.

That calmed her down. Natasha usually just needed to get her concern off her chest in the way of anger and then things would go back to normal. Since you understood this about her, you didn’t really mind, but considering the circumstances, well…  
"Some gratitude might be appreciated anyway.”

She snorted again. “I’m showing my gratitude by paying your hospital bill. Do you have any idea how much shrapnel they found in your chest? You’re lucky you didn’t end up with an arc reactor like Stark.”

“ _Un_ lucky, I’d say. Then I could have a suit and I’d get to see you more than once a month.”

“Is that what this is?” It was your turn to be closely stared at. No wonder the nurse had blushed as hard as she had. “A cry for attention? Because I’m busy with the Avengers?”

“No!” You sat up a bit at that. The movement caused the monitors on the opposite side of the bed to go crazy. If you didn’t want staff to burst in during this private moment, you’d need to calm down. A few deep breaths did the trick. “Tasha, give me _some_ credit. I wouldn’t do this to myself if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Do you know what it would do to me if you’d died because I wouldn’t step in on the off chance it would injure your pride?”

Her gaze softened. To avoid you noticing, Natasha lifted her hands to smooth your covers, murmuring as she did, “Do you know what it does to _me_ when I have to see you like this?”

“Well, maybe if you were better at your job, I wouldn’t have to jump into the line of fire so often.” Natasha’s expression immediately became fierce. “Okay, not a funny joke,” you said hastily. “Sorry.”

She fell silent after that, and you did as well. You weren’t sure where to go from there. On the inside, you were in turmoil. If you didn’t say something, Natasha was sure to leave, having better things to do. If you _did_ say something, it might make her leave out of temper. For five minutes, you wracked your brain for something safe to talk about before she left you again for another four weeks. Then Natasha broke the silence herself.

“Look, I’m…sorry,” she said, in the same hesitant fashion she always used when forced to apologize sincerely. “I’m sorry that you got hurt because of me, and I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting our relationship because of work.”

Again, she refused to look at you, but at least not in order to punish you that time. You slowly withdrew one hand and placed it on top of hers. Natasha looked up. “Hey, no need to apologize. I’m sorry I keep getting myself blown up. As for that last bit, well, I’ll probably be in here another month anyway. It’s not as though you’d get to do anything exciting with me while I’m healing.”

Natasha chewed her lip long enough that her silence concerned you. When she next spoke, though, she said something so surprising that your heart nearly stopped all over again:

“I’ll talk to Tony. See if he’ll let you come stay in the Tower with me when you get out.”

For several seconds, all you could manage was opening and closing your mouth. This suggestion had to be the guilt talking, but when had Natasha Romanoff ever really felt anything akin to guilt? It was best that you talk her out of the plan now instead of waiting to get yourself disappointed when she inevitably changed her mind after you were no longer heavily bandaged.

“I _think_ they’d be able to figure out we’re a thing in that case, Natasha.”

She shrugged, which was even more surprising. Natasha had made it quite clear, upon the relationship becoming official, that you weren’t getting any PDA from her. In the years since joining SHIELD, she had made it a point to disdain all forms of romance at all costs. “Clint already knows. I think Bruce has figured it out.”

“But what about those other guys?”

Her head bobbed a few times. “Stark will be a problem, but I might be able to hold off strangling him for a few weeks.”

“Well, if you’re serious,” you tried to keep your voice light, but you squeezed her hand all the same, “I’d really like that.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Natasha stood and was halfway to the door before she paused and turned back. “Unless you want me to stay for a little while.”

This, more than anything, made her state of mind clear. Natasha hated hospital rooms; she had never offered to stay before. “Well, since I won’t see you for another week at least…”

She hesitated a moment more, then went back to her chair and scooted it closer. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

That was less than what you wanted, but you would take what you could get. The last thing you felt before drifting away again was Natasha’s warm hand around one of yours. The last thing you heard? Her murmuring goodnight. Considering the circumstances, it was more than enough. You fell asleep to pleasant dreams.


	24. Firecracker [Loki Laufeyson]

Family was something that Loki never really felt he got the hang of. His one on Asgard seemed intent only on distant judgment; his one on Earth was tentative at best and belligerent at worst–or so he assumed. Whenever the subject of visiting yours got brought up, he tried his best to dissuade you. This plan worked fine, all through Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter. But when the summer after he moved in rolled around, you put your foot down.

“We’re going for the Fourth of July,” you announced, before holding your hand up to silence his protests. “No buts.”

It cost him quite a bit of effort, but Loki managed to prevent himself from reminding you that he was a prince and therefore he could voice as many _buts_ as he wanted. He thought it best to go along for the time being. Maybe it was just morbid curiosity as to how the families of mortals worked. _Perhaps_ they were more supportive than those on Asgard.

“So you’re the alien freak that destroyed half the country and got our little [Name] stuck in Manhattan,” your father said upon meeting him. Loki shook his hand with a sigh and then resigned himself to an unpleasant weekend of loud barbecues. Try as you might to coax him into joining the “fun” over the next forty-eight hours, it never took long for one of your several aunts, uncles, siblings, or cousins to make some remark about him and drive Loki back into terse silence.

It didn’t matter what he did. If he tried dressing more casually, he was trying too hard. If he actually got up to help cook, he didn’t do it correctly. If he sat down to play a game, he was obviously going to cheat. By the time the actual holiday itself rolled around, Loki could manage only acidic glowers in your direction while looking forward to finally going home.

As the night fell and the sky darkened, the taunting stopped. He seemed to be ignored rather than derided. Loki didn’t mind; it was an improvement as far as he was concerned. Just to make doubly sure he would be left alone, however, he settled himself at the now-empty food table to grumble to himself. he had only just got started when a small child ran up to him.

She stared at him for a good long while. Loki stared back. This one _might_ have been one of your nieces, he supposed, but she looked the exact same as the other eight Midgardian children running rampant through the backyard. He scowled in the hopes that would get her to go away. It did not.

“What do you want?” he asked testily.

The child did not answer. She simply held out one of the items passed out to everyone earlier in the evening. When it became clear that she wanted him to take the object, he did so with a roll of his eyes. “Lovely. A stick. Thank you ever so much.”

“Loki?” His eyes flicked up to see you watching with concern. “What are you doing?”

Talking, he wanted to answer. Was that a problem now, too? But too late. The girl had grabbed his hand when he wasn’t looking. The instinct to smack her away burned momentarily in his free palm. Had this been Asgard, she might have been a tiny spy capable of injuring him. Given that this was Midgard, she probably _was_ just a child, and Loki understood enough of the culture to know that hitting children would not make him any friends. Instead, he got up and followed her at a crouch through the surrounding throng.

“Papa!” the girl shouted–her first words spoken around Loki. Your father heard and turned around, beaming.

“Sugar bean!” As he drew nearer, the girl held out her own stick. “Ready to light your sparkler, sweetheart?”

She nodded; your father flicked on the lighter in his hand, and pressed the flame into the tip of her stick. It erupted into silver sparks. The girl let go of Loki’s hand and sprinted, giggling, off toward the rest of her peers. He straightened to watch, only to remember just who he was left with in the tense silence that followed. He swallowed, looking back.

“You, too?” your father asked, looking pointedly at Loki’s sparkler. When Loki did not answer, your father crossed his arms across his chest. “Not sure if giving you a weapon is a good idea, even if Mimi did.”

Was Mimi the girl? Loki had no idea, but suddenly the sparkler in his fingers seemed even stupider than before. He was done trying to impress your father, let alone the rest of your family. His mouth opened to tell your father as much. Before he could speak, a warm hand touched his shoulder. Startled, Loki glanced back to see you standing behind him.

“Come on, Dad. Give ‘im a shot.” Your father still didn’t look convinced. “Dad, do you really think I’m such a bad judge of character that I’d date someone capable of setting our get-together on fire?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone for the bad boy.”

You appeared somewhat cross for the first time since arriving, or at least the first time while Loki had been watching. It was your turn to fold your arms over your chest. “Dad, we only came because you told me you missed me and said I could bring Loki. The two of us are kind of item now. If you’re not going to treat him like family, then I’m not going to get to come to family events anymore.”

“But–”

“No buts! I love you, Dad, but I also love Loki. Unless we breakup, it’s going to be both of us or none of us from now on.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed in Loki’s direction. Loki, for his part, attempted to wipe his face clean of any emotion. After several minutes, it must have appeared to your father that you were utterly serious. He let loose a massive breath, then practically ripped the sparkler out of Loki’s hands to light it. When he gave it back, it was only thanks to Loki’s quick reflexes that the fire didn’t strike his shirt.

“Fine. But only because _Mimi_ likes him.”

With that, your father trundled off. Loki frowned after him, still clutching the sparkler in one hand. He was so focused on feeling dislike that he forgot you were there until he felt your arms wrap around him from behind.

“I’m sorry about that,” you whispered. “And for this weekend. Things’ll get better. I promise.”

He twisted so that you could see him raise a single eyebrow. “And if I don’t want to wait for things to get better?”

“Well…” you cocked your head to one side as you snatched one of his hands. Busy as he was waiting for your response, Loki was taken aback when you began to drag him toward the children. The one from before–Mimi, Loki supposed–brightened at his return and came racing up to hug his legs. “You’d probably disappoint your biggest fan.”

Mimi shot him an enormous smile, then darted off to rejoin what appeared to be a rousing game of tag. Since Loki’s sparkler had gone out as well, she disappeared quickly into the dark. Still, his chest did feel a little less tight as he wrapped one arm around you and drew you closer to his side. “I’m not sure that’s really incentive enough for me,” he said. “But…we’ll see.”


	25. Hyperlink [Phil Coulson]

When you told people that you worked for a secret government agency, their flights of fantasy usually took care of the problem of making you explain what exactly that involved. What came to mind (high speed chases, martinis, gunfights, and beautiful women) were much more interesting than your actual job with SHIELD entailed. _Some_ of the agents might have got caught up in those sorts of things, but you were not one of them. You spent most of your time on the clock in the basement working with the computer system.

It was an absolute mess from the get go, which probably explained your easy hiring. A student fresh out of college didn’t normally get offered such a high profile job so quickly. In the years since, you had tried your absolute best to clean things up. Though the system those days weren’t perfect, they _were_ better that the state you'd found them in, and better enough that you were bored most of the time. Cleaning viruses off the field agents’ computers wasn’t exactly exciting–but at least it kept you in contact with people outside your staff.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” You looked up from your laptop to see a familiar face smiling at you from the entrance to your office. Phil Coulson, upon catching your eye, nodded and stepped inside. “I need some help and they sent me here.”

“Again?” You spun your chair in his direction.

“Well, you _are_ the boss.”

“But you need help _again_? Last time you didn’t even have a malware problem,” you said. Looking closely at Phil, his eyes appeared to widen a bit at your words, but perhaps you were just imagining things. Best not to get your hopes up after all. You pointed at the chair opposite your desk and waited for Phil to settle in.

“It’s not malware this time,” he assured you, sliding his laptop to you. “I haven’t had a problem with that since you installed that one program.”

“And you’re not clicking the links of every single e-mail sent to you?”

He hesitated just a moment too long before shaking his head. “No.”

Smiling knowingly, you hummed and popped open the screen. “So if it isn’t a virus, what seems to be the problem this time?”

“It’s not a problem, per say,” Phil said. “I just hit a bit of a roadblock writing an e-mail.”

You chuckled and pulled open Phil’s e-mail screen. There _was_ a new e-mail, but you didn’t open it. Privacy policy and all that. As you tucked your pen behind your ear, you turned your attention back to Phil. “You field agents send so few e-mails you get stuck doing so?”

“This one is special,” Phil said with that same blithe smile. “And I haven’t tried sending any links before.”

“Links.” You blinked. “You realize you can just copy and paste those, right?”

“They’re not those kinds of links. What are they called again?” He tapped a finger against the surface of the desk. You watched with a tiny smile. Really, Phil wasn’t all that old in comparison to the rest of the agents in his department. Everyone that _was_ his age knew enough about computers to explain to you what they wanted. After a moment of squeezing his eyes shut, he snapped his fingers and opened his eyes again. “Hyperlinks! They’re called hyperlinks.”

“Oh,” you said, laughing. “Yeah, those are a little different. I can show you how to set those up, if you’ve already got the document ready.”

He gestured at the computer. “By all means.”

You maximized the e-mail without further ado. There was a PowerPoint presentation attached to it. As this was the focus of your conversation, you did not bother to look at the body of the e-mail, or even who the slideshow was being sent to.

“It should already be on the right slide,” Phil said. You nodded absently as the program pulled up, revealing as simple white slide with black text. A bullet pointed list took up all the space. Your eyes danced over several of the points, which spelled out things such as _I am very neat and organized, I will respect your personal space,_ and _I’m good at writing letters._

“Which one did you need hyperlinked?” you asked slowly.

“The last one,” he answered.

Your eyes fell upon the final point on the list: _I will let you see my Captain America collection._

“And to where?”

“There’s a picture on the last slide.”

You scrolled down to find a photograph of what could only be Phil’s incredibly extensive collection. After that, it was a simple enough matter to set up a hyperlink. “So what are you making this for anyway?” you asked. “Some sort of Captain American fan contest?”

“No,” said Phil. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what…” But you didn’t finish that sentence, because the question was soon answered for you. Due to force of habit, you had scrolled back to the first slide before hitting the save button. The title of the slideshow had nothing to do with Captain America at all. It read: _Why You Should Agree to Go Out With me._

"Oh, did you see that?” Phil said, just as mildly as he’d said everything before. “I suppose I won’t need to e-mail it to you, then.”

Your face must have been a very impressive shade of red. You gaped first at the slideshow, then at Phil. It took you nearly an entire minute to recover enough to say, “You’re asking me out via _PowerPoint presentation_?”

“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Phil shrugged, leaning backward in his chair. “I know I’m old fashioned, but I thought if I could prove to you that I could use a computer, you might give me a shot.”

Words! You needed to speak words! But your heart was drumming too hard in your chest for you think properly. All you could manage was continuing to look between the computer screen and Phil’s face. To his credit, he waited a very long time for a response, and patiently, too. When the silence continued, however, he gently snapped the laptop shut, picked it up, and began to walk from the room.

“But I guess,” he said, looking not the slightest bit perturbed by your implied rejection, “now that I’ve revealed I can’t even hyperlink things, you probably wouldn’t be intereste–”

“Wait!” Phil paused in the doorway; you left your chair and rushed up to him. “I–I didn’t mean I wouldn’t. I was just surprised, is all.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I would love to go out with you, Phil.” And you would. You just hadn’t been expecting your little crush to ever pan out. His smile grew.

“So should I e-mail you the details?”

You chuckled and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Maybe just give me them in person for now. One step at a time.”

Phil laughed, too. “Pick you up at seven Friday?”

“Seven sounds great,” you answered. “See you then.”


	26. Superman [Loki Laufeyson]

Never before had Loki Laufeyson been subject to as many horrors as over the weekend you decided to drag him to a comic book convention. He felt tired. He felt drained. Above all, he felt _harassed_. You ducking into the restroom was the first chance he’d had to rest since arrival, and he took the opportunity gratefully.

What was it about the convention that made it so energy-sapping? Was it the sheer amount of concentrated nerds? The unadulterated Avengers worship? The fact that some fool had gone out and given Thor his own comic book? Even that last detail might have been forgivable, had they decided to draw Loki looking akin to a constipated frog-man with antlers.

“I could _kill_ him,” Loki muttered with very little heat. He knew he would never go that far–why get himself thrown back in prison for a bit petty revenge not long cold enough to enjoy?–but apparently his recently-returned girlfriend did not, because you appeared in front of him with a scowl and a waspish:

“Superman doesn’t kill people!” 

He let out something between a sigh and groan. The brief moments where he forgot that he’d come to this ridiculous gathering in costume were the only moments in which he felt less murderous. It was only at your insistence that he had, and Loki did not feel nearly as attached to the mundane illusion as you did. When he did not respond to your rather childish comment, you sighed yourself, adding, “And fix your hair.”

His eyes crossed as you reached up to tug a lock of hair back across his forehead. “[Name]…”

“I’m not [Name]. I'm Kara,” you said, stepping back again to admire your handiwork. Luckily for you, your costume actually suited you. Come to think of it, how had you got that back on after using the restroom? The cape alone should have caused some trouble. And then there was the part where he knew you weren’t wearing any underwear underneath it. Had he not been so irritated, Loki might have been intrigued. 

“You’re insane, that’s what you are,” said Loki. He had no idea that this “cosplay” ridiculousness had involved such mind-altering behavior. If he had, he never would have given into agreeing to participate. You were still you, and he was still him, whatever you said to the contrary.

“Kal!” you whined. Probably that was his code name, but you had tried to cram so much information into his brain in the past week since sewing the costumes that Loki could not exactly remember. He didn’t have much time to try. The next second, you grabbed his wrist and wrenched him down to your level. “Don’t ruin this for me and you _might_ get lucky tonight.”

“The characters are cousins,” Loki pointed out flatly. This only got another grunt of annoyance out of you before you dragged him off to some booth about the upcoming movie his character was in.

_‘Just two more days,’_ he thought as he tripped after you. _‘Just_ two _more days.’_


	27. Broadway [Tony Stark]

The nice thing about Bruce deciding to stick around in Manhattan was that he was always available to serve as a distraction. Whenever Tony got annoyed or bored or even just a wild hair, it was time for a trip to the east coast. He assured Bruce that it was just to make sure the Tower was still standing, but you lived with Tony and knew better. It was never “let’s check on the Tower.” Instead, it was always, “Do you miss Bruce? I miss Bruce. We’re gonna go visit Bruce.”

It didn’t take long for you to like Tony’s friend, even after the somewhat startling reveal of who, exactly, Dr. Bruce Banner was. Soon, though you rolled your eyes and always acted like having to pack your things and travel across the country at the last minute was an inconvenience, you grew to _like_ these surprise trips. New York City was always good for a change of pace, and you enjoyed seeing Bruce almost as much as Tony did–almost, because half the time you couldn’t understand what Bruce was saying. Tony normally got lost in the upper-level discussion in a matter of minutes upon arrival as well. But you never felt purposely left out or unwanted.

When Tony had suggested this most recent trip, however, you had practically jumped at the chance. The timing could not have been better; your first anniversary was on that Friday. You had never been a particularly romantic or forward person (which begged the question of how Tony had noticed you in the first place), and the thought of what your boyfriend might do to celebrate the occasion terrified you, especially as you had not the money nor the imagination to match whatever his gift would be. With Bruce there to distract him, Tony could very well entirely forget your anniversary. Then you could leave his present outside the laboratory door and enjoy a peaceful evening alone.

As far as you could tell, your plan worked out. Tony did not mention the upcoming date once. You kept your tiny wrapped gift in a small compartment on your bag throughout the entire week. Then Friday arrived–your anniversary and last day in Manhattan. The three of you were going into New York City to see a musical before you had to say goodbye for another couple of months at least. You were loitering in the kitchen and giving your appearance a few last minute adjustments when Bruce walked in.

“Oh, hey, [Name]. You look nice.” He smiled, and you smiled back. After he and Tony had explained to you about Bruce’s little Hulk problem, Bruce had been very skittish around you for quite a while. It was nice to see that things were getting back to normal.

“You…too,” you said, frowning. It had only just then occurred to you that Bruce was wearing his usual solid-color button-up and khaki pants. Not that he looked bad or anything, but, “Why aren’t you dressed up?”

He paused with his hand around one of the oranges from the kitchen island. “Should I be?”

“I thought so. But you probably know more about New York City customs than I do. Do you think I should go change?”

It only took his face crinkling with confusion for you to realize that something weird was going on. Then he went and added to that feeling by asking, “Why are you going to the city?”

At that very moment, the door opened again, and this time Tony walked inside. He was every bit as dressed up as you were, and seemed to not even notice Bruce standing there, looking bemused. “You’re here, great.” Tony clapped his hand and then gestured with both thumbs towards the door. “Ready to go?”

Obviously, the answer was yes, but you weren’t quite ready to leave now. Instead, you lifted one eyebrow and crossed your arms in front of your chest. “Tony,” you said slowly, “Why is Bruce not coming with us?”

“What do you mean? He’s waiting in the car.”

“Tony,” said Bruce. By then his bemusement had changed into outright amusement. Tony winced as soon as he spotted him.

“He’s not even dressed up for it, Tony, and he had no idea we were going to the city at all.”

“You two aren’t supposed to talk to each other without me there to supervise,” Tony said, pointing first at you, and then at Bruce. You caught each other’s eye; Bruce grinned. It was all very well and good for _him_ to be entertained, but you had a creeping suspicion that your night was _not_ going to go the way you had planned. Sighing, you walked over to stand next to Tony.

“What’s going on?” you asked. “And don’t say nothing. Bruce will back me up on it being something.”

You watched as Tony’s eyes flicked between your face and whatever it was Bruce was doing with his orange now that you were no longer watching. Tony’s shoulders lifted for a brief moment before he let out a long breath and suddenly backed down. With a sigh of his own, he pressed the palm of his hand into the space above his right eye.

“Fine. It’s something. Can we go now?”

“Not until you tell me what the something _is_.”

He groaned. When you made to walk past him into the hallway with the clear intention of not accompanying him anywhere, he took you by the shoulders to prevent you going further. “Fine,” he said again. “It’s just going to be you and me going to the musical. That was always the plan. I never even invited Bruce.”

Automatically, you took a step backward. “I don’t think–”

“See, I knew this was how you were going to react. You think that since you don’t come from the same sort of background as me that I shouldn’t treat you. So, I had to get you to Manhattan for the week without giving away my thoughts so I could take you to a musical.”

“That’s too expensive to do for me,” you protested.

“Why does Bruce being there make such a big difference?”

“Because I–I don’t deserve it!”

Tony’s eyes fixed on yours, unreadable as they bored straight into your head. You expected a lecture (as always happened when you voiced that opinion, being a regular, average woman with no great skills or heroism to speak of), but to your surprise, one did not come. To prevent yourself from seeing his disappointment, you closed your eyes, and then felt his lips press against yours. He stopped as soon as he noticed your eyes open again.

“You’re my girlfriend. It’s our anniversary. I know you like musicals, so I did all this to take you to a musical. I won’t try to convince you you are worth it, because we’ll just end up bickering all night, but will you _please_ let me take you?”

It took every ounce of will power you had to not just blurt “no” and go running out of the building. “What about Bruce?”

“What about him?” Tony said. “It’s not his anniversary with me. That was what,” he looked around until he spotted Bruce back over by the island, “two months ago?”

“And you forgot,” Bruce said, smiling again. 

Tony winked as he grabbed your hand. “I’ll make it up to you. But tonight, it’s just me and [Name].”

“By all means.”

You could barely get out a second sound of protest before Tony returned his attention to you. “Look, I already bought the tickets, so I’ve spent the money regardless, and I don’t believe in scalping. Let me take you out just this once, as your present to me for the evening.”

Slow color crept up your cheeks. That was the kind of thing that always got you to play right into Tony’s hands. You’d already got him a present, but it was a small thing, and probably wouldn’t be very impressive. If this was all he wanted…You felt yourself nod before you had even fully realized that you’d given up yourself. A wide grin shot across Tony’s face.

“Excellent. Be back later, Bruce! Much later!”

And before you even had time to ponder the implications of that last statement, Tony had whisked you out of the kitchen and downstairs to the limousine idling outside.


	28. Sundown [Clint Barton]

Clint came back to an apartment emptied of everything he cared about. One step in, and he could tell. All the lights were off, even though the sun was low enough for the furniture in the living room to cast long, deep shadows across the wooden floor. Circles and squares glowed bright on the wall, vibrant scars where pictures had once prevented the paint from fading. Above all was the silence; it muffled rather than amplified. The sound of his footsteps as he stepped across the threshold barely reached his ears. But maybe that was just the denial talking and not the atmosphere.

“Huh,” he said into the dead quiet. Nothing stirred, not even the dust motes in the sunlight. It made a nice change, that quiet. Clint could remember the racket last time he stood in this very spot–he _could_ , but he would not. He hung his quiver on the empty coat hanger by the door and wandered deeper inside the apartment. His last meal had been days ago; he needed something to soothe his stomach.

A piece of plain white paper sat on the table–scentless, impersonal, and nearly blank. He stood awhile in the space between the kitchen and the living room, sucking on his teeth and watching the setting of the sun turn the paper lavender. When at last he had to move, because it was getting too dark even for _his_ eyes, he moved straight past the note in the dark.

He did what he always did when he first got home: made coffee. The pot was his, but not the mugs. Looking through the cabinets for them would only waste time. But despite the familiarity of the action, Clint noticed, halfway through, that he kept his movements small. Why? Did he think that if he prevented anything from echoing that it would make you feel more present? The percolating once would have woken you, but didn’t toward the end. Or, it did, but you just rolled tighter into your hedgehog spikes and would not bother to get up long enough to tell him to cut the commotion. 

A second sound escaped him: A joyless laugh, more of a scoff.

Clint made a little more noise then. When the coffee was finished, he took the pot straight off the heat and took one wide gulp. Likely it should have scalded his tongue. As he tried to tell himself it hurt, he swallowed three more mouthfuls.

By the time he reached the window, the pot was half-empty. Clint didn’t feel any less tired or more awake–or _more_ tired or _less_ awake. Outside, all was dark, save for the yellow-orange stamps of streetlights on the pavement four stories below. With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes. Next on the agenda was a shower hotter than his coffee, then sleep. Fury did not expect him back in the office until the day after tomorrow. He could sleep all through the day if he wanted. He needed a nap. What he did not need was to read that letter. Probably it was only an echo of things already said: “You weren’t here.” “Could you at least call?” “Where were you?” “I can’t do this anymore.”

Clint set the coffeepot by the sink, wiped his mouth with his wrist, walked back through the inky halls. _You_ couldn’t do this anymore? _He_ couldn’t do this, and he’d been unable to for months now. In that one moment, everything had been lost, not only that one physical thing, but every single intangible bit of the relationship. It dissolved like smoke in the open air. He knew it then. He knew it now. Changing things had never been a possibility.

He almost paused in the doorway to the empty room. Almost. That alone was still too painful. What agony it must have been for you, living there, walking past it every day. But Clint could not allow you that much pity, not then, maybe not for months to come.

The shower set to its highest temperature didn’t burn his skin.


	29. Linoleum [Steve Rogers]

It had been Steve’s idea to get a pet, and Steve’s idea to pick the largest dog he could find at the pound. A great, beige mutt with a St. Bernard face and paws like a mastiff, Thor declared upon spotting the thing that he had at last found a dog large enough to ride. Pepper did her best to find Steve good obedience lessons. Tony expressly forbid it from coming anywhere near his labs. But despite every other Avenger contributing in some fashion to the dog, _you_ were the one that gave him his name: Bear–and however inadvertently, this made you half-owner of a dog so huge and wild that even Captain America had trouble handling it.

Complicating matters was that Steve only decided on getting the dog shortly after he married you, meaning all three of you were sharing a house. If you didn’t keep an eye out, Bear could destroy half the backyard in less than an afternoon. Even if Steve managed to take him on a successful walk, the resulting property damage could wind up extensive. No one and nothing could avoid being mud-splattered with Bear around, least of all Bear himself. Desperately, futilely, you clung to the hope that you could your home clean.

Cue you, Steve, and Bear in the bathroom, Steve shirtless, you as unclothed as you could be without being naked. Bear sat oblivious in the tub, content as he always was until the water came on. You’d give Bear one thing to make the moment of action longer in coming: He was an easy dog to please. You, however, wouldn’t be pleased until he was clean, and he would not be pleased at being given a bath.

You caught a glimpse of Steve getting into position long before you had mentally prepared yourself. He spread his arms, grasped the shampoo bottle, and licked his lips.

“Ready?” he asked once he’d caught your eye. Your voice escaped you. You dipped your head and put your hand on the knob, bracing one last second for first impact.

Turning the water on had instant effect: Bear lurched backward with an ear-splitting howl. Steve stumbled forward; you closed the gap. Even super soldier serum-enhanced arms could not prevent Bear bucking every which way, slamming Steve first into the tiled wall, then into the drawn away curtain with enough force to yank the pole out of place. Somehow Steve held on, taking every opportunity to squeeze soap into Bear’s fur while you attempted to wash the suds away. Then it happened: the dog tore free of Steve’s grip and twisted right toward you.

Had you not lunged out of the way at the first opportunity, he would have crushed you leaping out of the tub. Unfortunately, though you regained your footing almost immediately, you took long enough that the dog was already bounding out the open door when you were steady enough to look.

“Bear!” you screamed, and dove after him.

“[Name]!” But Steve was farther from the door, and his shoulders were too broad to push past you. Dripping and angry, you barreled into hall. Bear did not stop. He sprinted toward the top of the stairs, flinging muddy water and soggy clumps of dirt every which way.

He disappeared down the stairs, but you were in hot pursuit. Somewhere behind you, Steve was shouting for you to be careful. You hardly heard. Soon you were downstairs, too, and rounding the corner into the kitchen.

There Bear stood. The linoleum beneath his feet had been transformed into a murky puddle. He faced you. You stared, slowed, lifted one finger.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

But Bear _always_ dared. He hunched his shoulders. You ran toward him, though to what end you did not even know yourself. The result was not that you prevented Bear from shaking his filth all over the room; instead, it was that you were standing right next to him when he did. A wave of brown water covered your face and body just as thoroughly as it did the cabinets and refrigerator opposite you. Stunned, horrified, you froze. It was only when you thought to spit out what was in your mouth that you realized that Bear was still sitting there, staring dolefully up at you and wagging his tail.

“[Name]! Bear! Are you okay?”

Steve arrived with a clatter. Upon spotting that things had come to a standstill, he paused. Upon spotting that you and the kitchen were now every bit as dirty as Bear had been to begin with, he snickered. Then he chuckled. Then he laughed.

Slowly, you straightened and crossed your arms over your chest. Though Steve should have noticed this, he was too busy having fun at your expense to do so. You watched for several minutes then asked, “What’s so funny, Steve?”

“I–You–You’re covered!” Steve managed to gasp between breaths. You supposed there must have been _something_ amusing about how someone as interested in keeping things as clean and tidy as you did ending up coated from head to toe in whatever it was the dog had got into that afternoon, but that didn’t mean you appreciated Steve’s behavior. While he attempted to recover, you squelched over to the sink, opened the cabinet underneath it, and pulled out several odds and ends of cleaning supplies. The laughter stopped as soon as you offered them to Steve. “What’re these?”

Luckily, he took the items before you could explain. “You think it’s so funny,” you said over your shoulder as you walked back over to the stairs, “ _you_ clean up. He’s _your_ dog.”

“He’s your dog, too.”

“Not right now, he isn’t.”

“But where are you going?”

“To take a shower. And if you want brownie points, you can clean up the mess leading up to the bathroom, too.”

Steve had the sense not to argue. Getting the smelly gunk off your skin made you feel slightly less murderous about the whole situation, but one last detail removed all of your frustration: When you came back downstairs, you found everything (including the dog) clean, and Bear and Steve asleep in an exhausted mound on the couch.


	30. Champagne [Natasha Romanoff]

And just like that, the wedding was over. Months of agonizing, plotting, and planning drew to a close as Natasha dipped and kissed you in front of the watching crowd. Even after the two of you had settled into your seats at the head table at the reception, you couldn’t quite believe that it had really happened. You found yourself incapable of settling while the rest of the guests trooped by. For the most part, you just stared at things–mostly Natasha.

She had offered to wear a tuxedo for the event. “Really, [Name]. I don’t care. I just want you to be comfortable.” As though you could be comfortable knowing that Natasha Romanoff wanted to marry you at a traditional service in front of friends and family! Nothing was going to make you _less_ nervous, so you’d all but insisted she wear a dress, too. It was entirely worth it when you finally got to see her as you walked down the aisle with your father’s arm through yours. A tuxedo just wouldn’t have suited her the same, and you were glad of your decision, though she _did_ make you look a bit shabby in comparison.

Either Natasha could read your train of thought, or she somehow couldn’t believe her luck of marrying you. She kept squeezing your fingers under the table. When she caught you ogling at her, she grinned. This made you blush, which only made you feel more foolish. You’d have thought that you could show a little more decorum around your _wife_.

Neither Natasha nor your bridesmaids attempted to distract you with chatter. You were too far gone for that. Not that you wanted to run screaming from the room or anything, but the amount of people sitting around and focusing on you was starting to become burdensome. Luckily, just as you were considering taking a nap right at the table, someone began to tap their champagne glass with their fork. One of Natasha’s…groomsmen? Bridespeople? wanted to make a speech.

To your horror, the person that rose to their feet when the noise level dropped was Clint. You felt your blood run cold. Clint was Natasha’s very best friend, and of course you wouldn’t ban him from the ceremony. Still, your own relationship with him wasn’t nearly as good; you got the feeling he resented you for being the person Natasha broke her “love is for children” rule over. Though it had never been a “friend zoning” type of thing directed at her, his manner was different enough when you were around that even Steve thought to comment on it.

Maybe he saw your discomfort. Clint caught your eye and smiled. Why now? you thought desperately. Why couldn’t Clint have embarrassed you at the rehearsal dinner the night before, or while everyone was helping you and Natasha move into your new flat? Your family was here for crying out loud!

But then Clint began to speak. “I know I speak for at least most of us when I say what a joy it is to be participating in such a momentous occasion in the lives of these two women, one of whom is and has been for many years my best friend.”

Cue the “awws” and your heart loosening a little in your chest.

“Natasha has been through a lot in her life–which, of course, I can’t go into detail about unless she wants Director Fury to shoot me right here.”

Everyone laughed. From your seat at the high table, you had a good enough view of Director Fury to see that he smiled faintly as well. Clint, however, was not looking at him. He was looking at Natasha, who shook her head and gave him a bit of a chuckle herself.

“It might put a damper on the proceedings,” she admitted. Clint made a toasting motion with his glass and continued:

“Well, whatever the details, Natasha has gone through a lot. No one would blame her for just settling down alone to be angry at the world. But instead, we all get to see her here, excited to start her new life with [Name]. And frankly–though Natasha will tell you otherwise–you could tell [Name] was the one for her as soon as they met. [Name] has really brought Natasha out of her shell. I’ve never seen her so happy. Thanks, [Name].”

He toasted again, drained his glass, and sat down to applause. You could feel yourself blushing to your ears. Your relationship with Natasha was nothing that great; Clint had done most of the working her out of her shell long before you arrived on the scene. Was he sincere? He’d looked sincere. But Natasha cut your fretting short by grabbing your hand again and briefly pressing her cheek against yours.

“He’s right you know,” she said in an undertone. “On all counts.”

You wanted to argue, but by then someone else wanted to say something. When she released you and turned her attention toward the speaker, you watched her a moment longer, then settled back into your chair. You’d been worried all the months waiting for this moment. You may as well enjoy it while it lasted. Clint’s speech hadn’t been so bad. Besides, there were years and years to while away on silly arguments with Natasha.


	31. Taken [Thor Odinson]

Thor disappeared again and no one knew where he had gone–or rather _why_ he had gone. The crown prince was forever visiting Midgard and his friends there. Normally, he gave some warning and explanation, though. At least he would usually make sure to tell his father. With Heimdall as a babysitter, it was not likely Thor could keep his whereabouts a secret long. But that week, he simply didn’t come to breakfast. No one could find him. No one could figure out what was going on.

They could have asked _you_ , but you had disappeared as well. Most would chalk your absence up as related to Thor’s. The two of you had been practically inseparable since you’d learned to walk…until Jane, that was, and this disappearance had everything to do with Jane. You removed yourself from the discussion only as far as one of the distant training pitches. Work, struggle, and sweat were all that could distract you from your best friend's doings several realms away.

Unfortunately, that meant that you were sweating and struggling when Thor himself found you, slicing and thrashing at the illusion of a giant ice beast. A great arc of dark blood disappeared as it splattered against your skin. The smears of dirt from your efforts stayed. Thor waited only as long as it took for you to register his hand on your shoulder, then stepped away, beaming. You knew right then and there, but something stayed your tongue. Maybe, you thought, just maybe, things had gone wrong.

“She said yes!” he cried.

Your brain froze, as did your heart. A half smile that felt more like a grimace remained stuck to your face. You needed to say something. Thor would expect you to. But your tongue remained glued to the roof your mouth. To play for time, you peeled a sweat-stiff lock of hair off your forehead. His smile fell two notches.

“Jane said she will marry me,” he said, slowly, as though he thought you had not understood his first attempt at communicating the news. 

It took a great deal of effort to force both ends of your lips up, but at last you managed. “Congratulations!” Quickly, you spun around to gather up your things. Hopefully Thor could not read you as well as he once could. Hopefully he did not note the higher pitch your voice hit when you added, “And her Selvig?”

“It took some convincing, but he agreed. Darcy and Ian were much more eager to give their blessing.”

One deep breath and you thought you could manage looking at him. You turned, feeling that your smile was a bit more typical of you now. “Asked her whole family, did you?”

“I wanted to do things right for Earth.”

“Jane was never going to say no, Thor.” A moment’s pause followed in which both of you grinned at each other. It almost felt like old times, before Thor met Jane, before all your chances had been washed away. At that thought, something in you snapped. “I should go clean up. Your parents will want to throw a party to celebrate.”

You meant that as farewell, but Thor fell easily into step next to you. “I have something to ask you as well,” he said, looking serious.

“You have my permission to marry Jane,” you told him, even though you didn’t want to give it. Once the wedding happened, your girlhood fantasy would die entirely. You knew how loyal Thor was. Jane would pass on in short time, that was true, but his feelings for her would not pass on with her. She would be his only wife. He would want you no more after her death than he did now in the months before their marriage.

His talking brought you back to the equally painful present. “The wedding will be done in the Midgardian style,” he was saying. “The bride and groom each have a guard. Would you consent to being in Jane’s?”

For the first time, you allowed your hurt to surface via your expression. Was Thor already trying to distance himself from you? “Why not yours? I am _your_ friend. Jane hardly knows me.”

"The guards are split by sex customarily.” He paused, and then took your hands in his. “I want you there with me, [Name].”

You couldn’t refuse him when he said something like that. You _wanted_ to, but you could not. It might be the last time you could stand behind him. Still you did not answer. Something in you wanted to try one last, desperate thing. Thor was so close, closer than he had been in ages. Your eyes fell on his lips. Knowing that it was foolish all the while, you moved closer until your lips were on his. It lasted only two heartbeats, but it was enough to tell you what you wanted to know. Thor did not let go, and when you pulled away, he only looked bemused.

“What was that for?” he asked. Your heart gave a terrible squeeze. The kiss meant nothing. It was not even that you’d missed your chance. Thor didn’t love you. He never had. Again, you forced a smile as you disentangled your hands from his.

“For being my friend,” you said hoarsely. “I will be in Jane’s bridesgaurd. It would be my honor to stand with both of you as you…” You searched for the term Jane had used during her brief conversation with you during her last visit to Asgard, “…tie the knot?”

“I thought Midgardians used rings, not ropes.”

You laughed, and Thor followed suit. Another pause, another shared smile. If you stayed much longer in Thor’s company, you thought you might burst.

“I should go,” you said for a second time, “before your betrothed finds me covered in grime. If I remember correctly, members of the bridesguard are supposed to be dewy and beautiful. I would hate for your future wife to kick me out for failing to live up to standards.”

He chuckled at that as well, but did not follow when you took a wide step in the direction of your quarters. “I should go as well. My parents will be eager to know of my doings.”

“You told me first?”

“You are my best friend, [Name],” Thor said solemnly. “You kept my plans secret. It only makes sense that you should receive the news first.”

You managed a watery smile. Even with Jane in the picture, Thor cherished your relationship. He met your smile before striding off in the opposite direction. Staring after him, you did not cry. You had known for years that Thor did not feel the same for you as you did for him. His friendship was enough. You would learn to adjust to the sight of Jane at his side. Who knew? Maybe you would find someone just as good as him, and then Thor could stand in his groomsguard. Nothing had to change except your attitude–and that you could manage easily enough.


	32. Tremble [Sam Wilson]

Sam’s meeting was still in full swing by the time you arrived ten minutes before it was scheduled to end. You didn’t have to get near the open doorway to the classroom to tell; quiet voices echoed toward you as you entered the building, mingling with the sounds of your steps bouncing about the empty hallway.

Timing these things was always difficult. Come too early, and you felt like you were intruding. Come too late, and Sam would likely have gone off somewhere without you. You had spent most of the morning debating on which to go for that day. In the end, you decided you’d rather see him for certain rather than go to all the trouble of putting the picnic together for nothing. At least you could ignore the group session if no one spotted you and invited you to come in–or so you had thought. Remaining unseen was nearly impossible when you were the only outsider lurking around the meeting rooms. 

For fifteen minutes after arrival, you stared at your toes and tried to talk yourself up for this date. Your location did not help matters. Lately this setting made you feel quite a bit of disconnect with Sam. True, you had only been dating him for three months, but you would have already expected things to have got a _bit_ more intense by now with anyone else. Sam wasn’t anyone else; you really liked him. You were willing to wait, but you could not help but feel that the snail-like rate at which the relationship was going was your fault. Maybe he just couldn’t get seriously into someone without shared life experience.

This discomfiting train of thought was interrupted by the sudden eruption of chairs scraping against tile. Sam’s meeting must have finished. He would be longer yet in coming, but the rest would be out soon. Your fingers stiffened around the handle of the basket clutched in both your hands. Shortly thereafter, people started to file out. You were a recognizable enough figure that several of them greeted you before slipping through the door to the park outside. Much to your relief, they didn’t do much more than that, except one dark-haired woman that stopped on her way out.

“Hey, [Name],” she said, smiling. “Waiting for Sam?”

You smiled in return and tried to appear relaxed. Alice had been a regular at these meetings since before you arrived on the scene. She was incredibly nice, incredibly brave, and incredibly oblivious to how intimidating you found her. As tiny as she looked, she was a _hero_. And who were you? Just some woman that worked at a coffee shop. Not that you thought that meant Sam was going to run off with her, mind. It was just that talking with her made you feel very edgy, like you were going to say something stupid or ignorant and then she was going to hate you, and then _he_ would hate you for being so cruel to one of his patients.

“Yep. I haven’t seen him in a few days. He’s a busy guy, that one.” The laugh that accompanied these words sounded a little too airy to be real to you, but Alice only chuckled in return.

"And it probably doesn’t help that we always keep him late, huh?”

“Oh, no! I don’t mind. It’s–”

“[Name]!” Both you and Alice swiveled around to see Sam jogging up the empty corridor toward you. He stopped two feet away and grinned. “Hey, Alice. Good share today.”

“Thanks. Well, it looks like you’ve got a date, so,” she bobbed her head as she moved backward out the door, “I’ll let you two get to it. Bye, Sam. [Name].”

Sam smiled fondly after her until the door swung shut. "Alice is nice."

"Yeah. We should have her over for dinner sometime," you said. Sam nodded, then turned to you with a single clap.

“So we got a date?” he asked. You held up the basket hanging painfully from one set of fingers. “Oh, a picnic. Nice. Let me get that.”

“Nu-uh.” You backed away, though Sam did not release the one-handed grip he had on the handle. “ _I_ planned this and it was a surprise. I carry the basket.”

It did not take Sam even a beat to think of a compromise. “We’ll both carry it. It’ll be easier that way.”

It wasn’t, but there was something nice about having Sam’s hand so close to yours as the two of you exited the building. Holding hands was about as far as you had got with Sam. That thought only brought you back to the fears that had been broiling in your chest prior to Alice showing up to chat. Luckily, he diverted you soon enough:

“Steve isn’t invited too, is he?”

You shook your head, noticing as you did that you had not even had to tell Sam where you were going. Both of you were headed toward the place where Steve and Sam jogged in the mornings–and you as well, on the odd days you were desperate enough to see them that you could drag yourself out of bed that early. “This was a surprise. I didn’t tell him.”

Sam threw his head back and laughed. Your own lips curled into a smile as you watched. He had a nice mouth. But that train of thought was going to get you nowhere but disappointment. “Good,” Sam said. “I’m getting tired of that guy crashing our dates. He needs to find his own girlfriend.”

You had met Sam and Steve about half a year ago now, when the two of them had stopped by the café you worked at after a morning jog. Probably nothing more would have happened between the three of you had a customer not decided to get a little violent at you for not having the right pastries. Steve had decided to not let that go, and he’d made sure to find you out back later–trying to compose yourself–to see if you were okay. Once your coworkers found out you were seeing the pair outside of work, they were quite excited about the possibility of you dating Captain America, but things had never been like that between you and Steve. You’d only ever had eyes for Sam, who was funny and kind and enjoyable to be around. Steve, for all his other talents, did not have much of a sense of humor.

“What happened to him and Sharon?” you asked. The short walk had got you to a tree growing by the side of the path. You had forgotten a blanket, but Sam did not comment on that. He simply tugged the basket free of your grasp at last and then sat down, opened it, and dug out one of the water bottles inside.

“That’s still happening. Not sure the long distance thing is good for him, though. Doesn’t give him much to do and Natasha keeps sending him back over to _me_ when she gets sick of him.”

Settling down in the grass next to Sam, you tried to imagine the mysterious woman from those investigations a year ago telling Steve to go annoy someone else. Natasha was an important figure in Steve and Sam’s lives, but she had never deigned to introduce herself to you. You would just have to take Sam’s word for it; you shrugged as you withdrew a sandwich from the basket sitting next to Sam's knees. Sam on his part did not seem interested in food at the moment. He took another swig of water and squinted at the nearby strip of sidewalk.

“Speaking of couples that might not work out, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

There was no way to explain to Sam how that simple statement made the marrow in your bones freeze solid–not without looking like a pathetic mess, that was. When you made no sound to indicate you had heard, he glanced over at you, forcing you to hastily swallow the chunk of sandwich currently in your mouth. “Okay…”

For some strange reason, Sam smiled. Maybe this was supposed to relax you? It didn’t work. He scooted a little closer. “Look…I know I’m not exactly an ideal date for a lady like you. I’ve seen some bad stuff. Killed a few men myself. It’s nothing I’m proud of, but I get that you might not want to deal with that. Maybe we’re not going to make it.”

You took a minute to draw a circle in the dirt with your finger, then looked up, smiling very faintly. It wasn’t insulting at least. Sam was too nice for that. “It’s not you, it’s me?” you asked cheekily. Sam let out an amused snort.

“Nah, I just meant…Well, things are going a little slow and I thought maybe you didn’t like me as much now that we’re dating. I really like you, [Name]. If breaking up is what you want, though–”

“It’s not!” you blurted out. Sam stopped talking, clearly waiting patiently for your explanation. You gulped down half of your own water bottle before offering an answer, because you knew how stupid your excuse was going to sound. “I actually thought _you_ weren’t interested in _me_ because of the opposite–because I haven’t experienced all that so there’s no way I could understand or connect with you.”

Just as you expected, Sam laughed. Then he did something that wasn’t expected at all: he tugged you closer to his side. “So you’re telling me we’ve both been taking things slow because we both thought the other person wasn’t into us?”

You felt such a surge of relief that Sam didn’t find your fears entirely stupid and that he liked you and that you weren’t breaking up that it took you a minute to find your voice. Even when you did, your “looks like it” came out much breathier than intended.

“Well, now that we’ve worked that out, things can get started properly. Bet you anything we can move faster than Steve.”

“That won’t be too difficult,” you remarked. “He’s about as fast as a glacier when it comes to these things.”

Sam laughed again. “How appropriate.” He was very close and his mouth moved once more into a smile. “Come here. There’s something I’ve been wanting to try.”

That was enough to make his intentions clear. You moved a little closer, and then Sam’s lips were against yours. The kiss wasn’t anything passionate, but it was _something_ –or might have been, had someone not chose to interrupt you right then and there.

“Hey, what are you guys doing here?”

It was Steve. Of course it was Steve. To his credit, he didn’t look the least bit surprised to find you and Sam kissing, but he also didn’t look like he was about to let you get back to it. Sam was the first to react. Before you could so much as blink, Sam had lifted one arm in the air and chucked his empty water bottle at Steve’s head. Obviously, Steve managed to avoid this projectile.

“Man, can’t you see we’re sort of in the middle of something?” Sam demanded–though he was half-smiling. “You go on. We’ll catch up later.” He did not even wait long enough to see if Steve did as told. He simply turned back to you, cupped one side of your face, and kissed you again. If there was anything you could tell by Steve’s frown and the way he jogged off, it was that, yes, you and Sam were going to be running circles around him.


	33. Fades [Peter Quill]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck. I completely forgot how _long_ this one is. Shouldn't have squirreled it away in a collection that's got a bunch of garbage in it because this is actually _not garbage_. Actually, I think everything really improves from here, but what's the likelihood that anybody read through all the stuff leading up to this?

Even twenty-one years later, you could still remember the first time you laid eyes on Peter Quill. He was a scrawny thing then, fragile even for a Terran, and you thought he was the prettiest creature you ever laid eyes on. That _might_ have had something to do with the fact that the grownups had talked extensively about the angel-boy they were picking up–and that you weren’t supposed to see him at all. You were scrawny then, too, all scraped blue knees and tangled hair. The Ravagers had a bad habit of picking up children wanting looking after…but at least you hadn’t passed out when brought on board.

That was all you got see: some floppy-haired Terran boy slumped on the ship’s floor. Your hiding place clinging to the rafters above everyone’s heads turned out to not be as secure as you hoped. No sooner did you spot and identify Peter as the new kid then did some massive hand tear you from your root.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Yondu might have frightened you your first week on the ship, but by then you had learned that, when it came to children, he was all bark and no bite. Instead of answering, you shot him your cheekiest grin. All this resulted in was Yondu rolling his eyes.

“Swear to God, if I didn’t owe your daddy that debt, I’d dump you on the first moon we pass.” With that, he tossed you from his arms, causing you to tumble head over heels across the metal grating. This did little more than daze you slightly. When you stopped seeing stars, Yondu pointed dramatically toward the open hallway beyond you. “Get on outta here, and don’t go pestering the boy later. He’s cargo, nothing more. I don’t need you complicatin’ matters forming an attachment.”

******

Even twenty-one years later, you could still remember the first time you and Peter Quill spoke. Cargo or no, five days after his arrival he was still on board. The grownups whispered of forgoing the bounty, of having bleeding hearts, of the various ways to cook up Terrans. It was the last that spurred you into action; the thought sparked a childish fear that some of the more dangerous Ravagers just might actually try to eat the boy before you even had a chance to introduce yourself. They had to be serious. There were guards posted outside the room he never left. Certainly that would prevent an _adult_ from getting in, but a child that knew the gaps and vents and cracks in the ship like the back of her hand? Hardly. It took no time at all to find yourself one grate away from Peter’s room. You could see bits and pieces of him–but only from the back.

You had not come all this way for Peter’s back. It did not look as though he were asleep, and if he were, who cared? He’d had days to sleep, days in which you and the other kids were kept busy and away with cleaning and running and keeping pointless watches. As far as you were concerned, the Terran boy _owed_ you some consciousness. Your clattering into his room was enough to assure his wakefulness. To his credit, he didn’t do much when you first shoved the grate and yourself inside. He rolled over and gazed dimly up at you, sure, but that was it. His face looked sticky and red even in that room’s dim lighting. You decided to take pity on him.

“Hi.” You waved. 

Peter stared, licked his lips, and drew in a long, tremulous breath. “Hi.”

“What?” Frowning, you took a step closer. He stiffened. “Do all Terrans from Terra sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Hey _e_ ,” you answered, exaggerating Peter’s strange drawl. “Does everyone from Terra talk like that?”

“Are all girls from outer space blue?” he retorted. The look on his face made it plain that you had somehow upset him further. This did nothing to deter you. Smiling, you lighted next to him on his cot.

“Some of ‘em.” You waited for Peter to answer your question. He never did, forcing you to try to think of something to interrupt the silence: “We got Terrans out here, too. None of them talk like you do, though.”

This prompting did nothing but cause him to start crying again. “I miss my grandpa. I want to go home.”

You scrunched your nose. “Why would you miss Terra? Nothing ever happens on Terra. Yondu said you’re the only–”

_BANG!_ The door opened with such an enormous crash that both you and Peter jumped closer together, tiny hands brushing against each other atop the scratchy blanket.

“Boy!” That familiar voice had you leaping to your feet before Yondu had the chance to switch on the lights. “You don’t start eatin’, I’ll let my crew eat you. They ain’t never had a Terran before and if all you’re gonna do is take up space as a corpse, you might as well–” He came to a complete stop upon seeing you standing there, and even your smile wasn’t enough to save you this time. Yondu lifted you into the air with one arm, wrenched the door open with the other, and then threw you forcibly out of Peter’s room. “What did I tell you about being affectionate to the boy? We ain’t keepin’ him! Go find something useful to do ‘fore I toss you out the damn window!”

_‘BANG!_ The door closed with as much force as it had opened. Shaking your head, you slowly sat up. You could hear nothing through the door, and before you could get any closer, one of the grinning guards pointed your way back up the corridor.

******

Even sixteen years later, you could still remember when you first realized you’d disobeyed Yondu and become fond of Peter Quill after all. You hadn’t _meant_ to. He talked funny, dressed funny, danced funny, and he listened to funny music. His queerness didn’t bother you too much. There were plenty of other kids to get into mischief with, ones that Yondu didn’t threaten to eat every time they so much as let an asteroid chip the ship's paint. And then you had to sit with him, quiet and still, while waiting for your turn for pod driving lessons.

“Heard Yondu caught you and Kraglin kissing last night.”

You had not been looking at Peter before he spoke, but once the words sunk in, you flashed him an enormous grin. “Yeah?”

“Heard he went ballistic.”

“So what?” Peter remained silent. You knew your expression was admission enough; you _had_ kissed Kraglin the night before. Instead of finding this amusing, however, Peter just grimaced. Your curiosity piqued, you slid down the bench closer to him. “You have a problem with me kissin’ him?”

Suddenly, Peter wouldn’t look at you. How he was supposed to tell you were teasing him without seeing your face, you didn’t know. Still, you kept up your smile and inched closer until your arms were brushing against each other. In the years since the Ravagers had decided to keep him on, you’d learned that sometimes it took a bit of time for him to talk. You’d never been a patient girl, but when it came to Peter…

“What do you see in Kraglin anyhow?” he asked.

You shrugged as soon as you caught a flash of his eyes. “He brought me something nice from his run yesterday–and he’s cute.”

“You think Kraglin is cute?”

“Sure,” you said. “Guess I’ve got a thing for Terran boys.”

Peter went so pink that you could have mistaken him for a Krylorian–but then, you had that effect on a lot of boys, even back then. It didn’t mean anything special at the time. Your smile just widened as you moved back down the bench, careful to flick him an appraising look before the pod came back. Now he _really_ wasn’t looking at you. You felt the same pang you had upon seeing he’d been crying right before your first meeting.

“Bring me something pretty and maybe I’ll kiss you, too.”

No answering sound came from Peter. He got redder, though. Maybe you’d have to start keeping track of when that happened from then on. There was a distinct chance that you could use it to your advantage.

******

Even eleven years later, you could still remember the first time you felt Peter Quill’s skin hot against yours. The moment blurred around the edges then, too: tumbling into the Ravager ship, clothes torn, the Milano steaming, breath coming wild in your ears. The roar of the guardian beast rang in your ears as the quiet of space enveloped the hangar bay. Your limbs trembled with the ecstasy that came only from cheating death–a feeling you were familiar with and almost addicted to.

As soon as your brain registered that you were still in one piece, you began to laugh, long and loud. There was nothing better than snatching victory a hair’s breadth from the jaws of defeat. Your blue skin stung where the lacerations still burned and the smell of singed hair was almost suffocating, but that didn’t change the fact that you had managed it. You had won. Once you finally had enough oxygen in your lungs, you spun about, “Peter! We–”

He wordlessly held out some tiny, crumbling object: not what Yondu had sent the two of you down to procure, but something valuable nonetheless. It was a small, intricately carved, hugely old statue of a being that looked like what Peter told you on earth were called angels. The smile on your face died away to be replaced by an expression as serious as his. The thing was beautiful; your heart ached to have it, but rules were rules: you go to enough trouble to get something extra while on a mission, it was yours to keep.

“Can I–” You wanted to say _look_ , but knew that wouldn’t be enough for you. If Peter handed that statue to you, your fingers wouldn’t let it go. He’d either have to beat it out of your hands–possibly breaking it in the process, ruining its selling value–or let you walk off to keep it in the growing collection by your bunk. He utterly surprised you by placing it in the hands that had unconsciously swam up to reach for it.

“It’s yours.”

Boys gave you things. Boys had given you things for years. Your tendency of collecting knickknacks you thought pretty was famous among both Ravagers and frequenters of the bars and outposts you hung about for work. They weren’t usually terribly valuable things, since you cared more about glitter and beauty than credits you wouldn’t trade them for, so Peter offering you something both pretty _and_ valuable left you unusually dumbstruck–so dumbstruck, in fact, that you almost didn’t take it.

“I couldn’t…” But you licked your lips and were taking it from him before you could finish your protest. You had never wanted a bauble more than that one. Peter handed it over, still stone faced. This threw you off, until he closed the space between you so quickly that your nose almost touched his neck.

“You once told me that if I brought you something pretty, you would kiss me,” he said, voice low. Slowly, your eyes traveled up to his. You hadn’t forgotten, despite your many forays into kissing and touching and all the rest in the years since. What surprised you was that Peter remembered.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

He was taller than you now, no longer scrawny, but bigger in the shoulders than you could ever hope to be. You lifted yourself up on your tiptoes and eyed him a second longer. It looked to you like Peter was holding his breath. Your wicked smile returned just as you pressed your lips against his. That one moment was like the spark that started the ship’s engines. No sooner had your lips touched than did he wrap his arms around you to crush you to his chest. Clearly, someone had been practicing. Moaning appreciatively at his attempts to pry your mouth open with his, you slid your fingers into his hair. It wasn’t long before you both were working at the straps on your uniforms, clumsy attempts made clumsier by the fact you couldn’t stop kissing.

It didn’t matter that you smelled, it didn’t matter that you were filthy, it didn’t matter that you were still in the hangar bay and Yondu was waiting for the two of you to bring him the gem you’d been sent for. All that mattered was that he didn’t come looking for the reason behind the delay. Things that day went quite a bit farther than the childhood kisses you’d shared with Kraglin so long ago.

******

Even ten years later, you could still remember the first time you waited for Peter Quill. Unlike the rest of the Ravager children, he was really all Yondu’s. Bluster and banter and bitch at him though he might have, Yondu obviously thought of himself as Peter’s father. Maybe that was why Peter decided to leave. The Milano was spacious enough, and at least there Peter could turn off the visual communicator if he got sick of Yondu’s screeching about cannibalizing him. So long as he didn’t interfere with business and came home every so often, no one really cared. Except you.

You tried not to care. Who were you to be concerned with Peter flying about the galaxy? Only someone who loved him more than she’d loved anyone else in her entire life. It was a strange thing to finally be settled with someone, stranger still to see that person move away. There had been some discussion about you coming along, but in the end, you hadn’t felt that you could turn your back on Yondu that way. He was the closest thing you’d ever had to family. You stayed on–and waited.

It felt like years before Peter finally decided to visit, though it had only been a few weeks in reality. Those weeks had been filled with an uncharacteristic moroseness on your part. For a girl that was usually so constantly moving that people asked her leave, you suddenly had no motivation to do anything at all. When you weren’t off doing something Yondu or Kraglin required of you, you mostly stayed in your bunk, using reading the ship manual as an excuse to be left alone, but mostly feeling sad and alone in the dark.

On a rare occasion that you managed to fall asleep, you were awoken suddenly in the wee hours of the morning by an outright cheering coming from downstairs. You felt only annoyed at first. Couldn’t the rest of them keep their celebrations down in the middle of the night? Then it dawned on you that those were not victory cries. There was no shouting about credits or plans for the credits earned. No, all you could hear was, “Welcome home!” and “Congratulations buddy!”

Peter! How embarrassing it would be to have him find you like this. You sat up, groping for a light switch and some decent clothes, but–too late. The door slid up and Peter stood silhouetted against the light pouring in from the rest of the ship. His eyes flashed in the dark and caught yours as he swiftly strode over to sit on your bed. You found yourself unable to do anything more than bite your lower lip.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine. You?”

Again Peter did not answer right away. Instead, he took your face between both of his hands and leaned his head down to kiss you heatedly. Things didn’t go further than that right away, but by the time you broke apart, both of you were panting. His face remained serious for a moment longer. Then he smiled and kissed the top of your nose.

“Better now.”

******

Even nine years later, you could still remember the first time you realized Peter Quill _wasn’t_ yours. The spaces between his visits to the Ravager mothership grew longer and longer. You understood–really, you did. Peter was an adult, and he always thought of his family as the Terrans he’d left on his home planet. You, on the other hand, had barely known your father before his untimely death. The Ravagers _were_ your family. Going off with Peter just wasn’t something you were ready to do.

You occupied yourself just fine while he was gone. Your knack for distracting men made you an excellent source for gathering information for various Ravager projects. Visit a couple of rough-and-tumble planets, bat your eyelashes a few times, and they were putty in your hands. This made you an invaluable resource to the group and kept you busy enough. You didn’t ache for Peter so much as wish he were there–not that you didn’t work well or even better with Kraglin and the others. They just weren’t _Peter_. They just weren’t special. Understanding was just as far from you as it was to everyone else that made the mistake of commenting on your pining.

Crashing for hours after a completed mission wasn’t unheard of with the Ravagers. Unless there were time-sensitive limitations to getting something done, no one cared what time someone rolled out of bed. After being up for nearly two days straight helping Kraglin out with obtaining some blueprints, you slept until the afternoon, and to hell with whoever thought you shouldn’t have. You were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes when you staggered toward the mess hall, and so at first you didn’t quite register that one of the voices you heard inside was more familiar than all the rest.

“Seriously, Quill? An A’askvarii?” Kraglin sounded skeptical, and he wasn’t alone; several other voices joined together in disbelieving laughter. You hadn’t heard them sound this doubtful since you’d overheard them telling Peter that there was no way [Name] had slept with him. Since you’d confirmed that Peter and you were a thing, the rest of them had almost completely forgotten they’d once believed him even incapable of kissing.

“I’m serious!” The laughter grew stronger. “I met her at a library. Figured she could help me find my way to the restricted section, and if a little hanky-panky is all it took…”

“They’ve got tentacles!”

“You’d be surprised how nice those feel around the shaft, actually.”

“Needle teeth?”

“For someone that said it’d been a few years since someone gave her bedroom eyes, she sure knew how to use those needles.”

By then, Peter being there had finally broken through your haze of exhaustion. He was home and checking in and…talking about other girls. You could hardly believe it. After all you had given up to stay with Peter. You stood, rigid and glaring, in the entrance to the hall. Peter’s back was to you, but several of those with him could see your face and your expression. They fell silent as one. Then Kraglin twisted in his seat and spotted you, too, only to nudge a still-rambling Peter with his shoulder. When Peter caught his eye, he looked around, saw you, and clenched his teeth together in a wince. Had you been closer, you probably would have heard him hiss. You, however, were already gone, out the door and into the hallway.

“[Name]!” There were several clatters and clangs as Peter tried to catch up with you. “[Name]! Hey, wait up!”

You didn’t speak. It felt like your very bloodstream was flooded with rage. Peter Quill, the man you’d picked, the person you gave up all your sexual exploits for, the single being in the universe that you thought about all the time, found it suitable to brag about doing the exact opposite to you. If you didn’t get away from him, you’d–

He grabbed your shoulders and opened his mouth. You didn’t let him even start to explain.

“An A’askvarii?” you screamed, so loudly that it made your throat hurt. Peter winced a second time, but kept his hands on your shoulders as though that could keep you there if you wanted to move. Your chest heaved as you glared up at him. Never before in your entire life had you wanted to hit Peter. You did in that moment. So badly. Maybe he sensed that, because he carefully lifted his hands, though he was equally careful to remain exactly as close to you as before.

“It was just to get information,” he said. He kept his voice maddeningly calm. Needless to say, this did not calm you down one iota.

“Then why were you in there bragging to them about doing it with some other girl when you could have been with me?” you demanded hotly.

“You were asleep.”

“Huh?”

Peter shrugged, looking entirely innocent. “You were asleep. The guys said you had a rough couple of days on your last gig and I didn’t want to wake you up. I was trying to be nice.”

His face remained utterly steady; his eyes didn’t waver once from yours. It took a while, but the anger you felt drained away. “Really?” you asked. Then Peter smiled, and did so as he took your hand and continued down the hall in the direction of your bunk.

“Really. C’mon. Let’s go get 'reacquainted.'”

******

Even eight years later, you could still remember the first time you thought that Peter Quill didn’t love you. He only came home for gatherings Yondu insisted he come home for, and the two spent the entire time yelling at each other more often than not. Sometimes, you would not have been surprised to hear Yondu finally give the go ahead for the rest of team to cook Peter up. Maybe the rest could tell that Yondu had a special place in his heart for Peter, but you just couldn’t see it.

You hardly saw Peter either. If he came to the mothership, it was usually to run some trinket to Yondu or pick up spare parts for the Milano. He’d hug you, sometimes, kiss the top of your head, then grin and wink and mouth _‘call me’_ as he shot back outside. You’d smile back and tell him to come home soon–but your "home" wasn’t Peter’s anymore. Try as you might to resurface quickly after his short visits, this only resulted in you throwing yourself into constant work and making stupid mistakes. Kraglin knew. You knew he knew, but he didn’t say anything.

Instead of feeling warm when you thought of Peter, you started to feel hollow.

Even when he was there you felt hollow. One day he pulled off some grand heist and Yondu welcomed him with open arms and everyone broke into the booze. There were lights and chatter and lots of illegal drinks. Normally, these situations found you in your element. That night, you listened to Peter talk about a crazy Kree girl that tried to stab him after he slept with her sister, and felt him pull you close. You let him. And when he grabbed your hand and stumbled to your bunk to topple into bed and start mouthing at your neck, you let him do that, too.

It just didn’t feel the same.

******

Even five years later, you could still remember the first time Peter Quill didn’t bother finding you when he came home. It had been ten long months since you’d last seen Peter’s face in person. You called, every so often, but even when you did, he always had somewhere to be, something to do, someone to see shortly after you called. But surely the two of you weren’t over. He still signed off with "I love you." Neither of you had said anything about breaking up.

“Did Yondu and Peter have a row I don’t know about?” you asked Kraglin while the two of you were in charge of piloting the ship. 

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “They’re always rowing.”

“Yeah, but Peter hasn’t been back in nearly a year. This must have been a big one.”

Kraglin looked at you again. The look on his face was entirely different this time: something you couldn’t read but didn’t like all the same. “What are you on about, [Name]?” he said. “Peter was here last week.” Your heart froze in your chest. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the proverbial rode that long, but you saw comprehension dawn on Kraglin’s face in the split-second after his announcement before he twisted back in his seat. “He didn’t tell you.”

Peter hadn’t told you. All of a sudden, your chest felt tight. You jumped to your feet entirely without warning. “You’re lying.”

“What the–” Not that Kraglin couldn’t steer on his own, but your sudden lack of contribution was obviously noted. “[Name], what are you doing? Peter isn’t worth–”

“You’re lying!” you shouted again as you left the cockpit. “Yondu!”

It took no small amount of banging and screaming to get Yondu to appear. You had no doubt that he was busy; you simply didn’t care. Nothing would settle you down until you found out for sure that Kraglin was just trying to make fun of you. “Yondu! Where the hell are you?”

“The hell are you screeching about, girl?” Suddenly, he was there. Your anger and fear did not fade, though you were much too old to get away with the sort of mischief you got into as a kid. Yondu was not your father; he was a ruthless bandit, as were you. You had to act like one, even when you felt like you were breaking apart.

“Was Peter here last week?” you asked.

For a long time, Yondu didn’t answer. Then he lazily lifted his hands to his hips and looked down his nose at you. “Yeah,” he grunted. “What of it?”

You said nothing, as you were too busy taking deep breaths so you wouldn’t cry in front of your boss. Kraglin was right. Peter wasn’t worth it. You weren’t going to let the rest of the Ravagers have a good time telling Peter how you cried over him next time he came by. “Nothing,” you answered dully. Yondu snorted. He always had been able to see right through you.

“I told you not to go formin’ an attachment to that boy,” he reminded you. “I told you. Didn’t I?”

All you could think of as he trundled away again was that he had. For once in your life, why hadn’t you listened?

******

Even three days later, you could still remember the look on Peter Quill's face when he realized you weren’t _his_ anymore either. He had been on the shit list for weeks, having gone after an artifact that the Ravagers had already signed on to get, and obtaining said artifact before you all could even make it to the quadrant. Like Yondu said, it wasn’t playing fair–and at least within the Ravager structure, members were always to play fair.

Then he showed up out of nowhere with some green-skinned woman and all was forgiven. You took one look at them gasping on the floor and knew. Maybe you weren’t far gone enough to want to listen to Yondu beat the hell out of Peter, but you stuck around all the same, so you heard everything: Infinity Stones and Kree wars and Ronan the Accuser. Why did the Ravagers have to get mixed up in that mess? Why did Kraglin have to get mixed up in that mess? You were outlaws and bounty hunters, not the Nova Corps. 

“I can’t believe you’ve all decided that I have to sit this one out,” you complained as you watched Kraglin suit up for the big battle. Nerves weren’t what you felt, exactly–Kraglin had gone into dangerous situations before–but you still weren’t keen to see him go. He knew that, of course, and shot you a smirk. 

“Worried about me, darlin’?” 

“Hardly.” You rolled your eyes and shifted into a more comfortable position in the room’s chair. There were so many guests aboard the ship now that private quarters were hard to come by. Even as second-in-command, Kraglin was having to use an old storage room to prepare for the fight. “I can easily find someone prettier to replace you with if you get your head blown off.” 

At that, Kraglin laughed. Your venom was mostly due to being left out and he knew it. “You know no one ‘round these parts doubts your abilities. It’s just that you’re…y’know.” He nodded at your stomach, which only made your scowl even more prominent. 

“We don’t know that. I haven’t started to show.” 

“Still, you might be. And you know how Yondu feels about babies.” 

“Ugh,” you groaned. “He’s such a sap. I shouldn’t be punished because my period decided to skip a week. I’m coming and Yondu can’t stop me.” 

“[Name].” Kraglin said the word so gently that you had to look up. No one had said your name like that in years. Swiftly, he moved over to you and brushed your cheek with his hand. “Sit this one out. You never listen to me and I let it slide, but just this one time. Do as you’re told?” 

Maybe you were getting sentimental in your old age. You could feel your cheeks turning darker blue and had to look away. There were butterflies in your damn stomach. “Fine. But you better bring me back something nice from Xandar for my trouble.” 

“I’ll see what I can do. First we gotta save Xandar. Morality's a bitch, ain’t it?” 

“Tell me about it,” you grumbled, but you leaned forward to kiss Kraglin at the same time. You could hear footsteps outside the door, but the rest of the Ravagers had learned by then to not enter any room where you and Kraglin were otherwise alone. Probably whoever it was just wanted to make sure he was actually getting ready and not peeling your clothes off instead. To your very great surprise, however, that someone decided to come inside. 

“Hey, Kraglin. Yondu told me he saw [Name] come this direction. Have you see–” You broke off the kiss to look at Peter. Your eyes met, and even though you’d told yourself a thousand times that no official breakup was needed, your heart sputtered to a near-stop at the sight of him. Kraglin twisted in your grip, frowning prominently, and opened his mouth, but suddenly you didn’t want to deal with this. He might die within the hour, and if Yondu was right about this baby thing, you’d have enough trouble without dealing with Peter, too. You pulled Kraglin back around and gave him another soft kiss. 

“Stay safe. If you don’t come back, I’m raiding your room,” you said as you slipped off the chair, past Peter, and into the hall. That was enough of a goodbye for you, especially since Yondu was right there at the end of the hallway, glaring at you as though simply worrying about someone was making trouble. Looking at him hurt, but your eyes’ immediate reaction of looking at Peter instead hurt worse. His face had gone entirely blank, but there was something in his eyes… 

Swiftly, you rushed away. At least if you’d been going out to die fighting Ronan, you wouldn’t have to feel all this. Right before you ducked into a quieter area of the ship, you thought you heard Yondu again, growling at Peter, maybe: “Let her go, boy. She oughta be affectionate with someone that cares enough to be affectionate back.” 

You took a deep breath to fill your lungs. It startled even you that you didn’t want to cry. Yondu didn’t have to worry about one thing anymore. Your affection for Peter had long, long since faded into nothing. 


	34. Gifts [Natasha Romanoff]

The summer night was warm and quiet as inside the huge farmhouse the Barton family bid their goodbyes. A cluster of five–mother, father, daughter, son, and your girlfriend–exchanged hugs and soft promises while the crickets outside the open door chirped their evening song. Cooper already clung to Natasha’s hand, gesturing for his mother to bend down and kiss him on the cheek. Beside her, Lila remained firmly wrapped in her father’s arms. It was all vaguely sickening, even from where you stood some distance away by the stairs, arms crossed.

Finally, Clint got his daughter to let him go. He crouched to place a hand on her shoulder. “You be good for Aunt Natasha, alright? And [Name],” he added, with an amused smile in your direction. "It's their Big Day, too."

“We will.”

“Good. You two hold down the fort while we’re gone.”

He kissed her once on the forehead, then Clint and Laura were gone. Natasha, Lila, and Cooper stood there, waving out the doorway, until the last rumblings of the car engine faded away. Along with it, any hope that Clint and Laura would change their minds and stay home for the evening disappeared. Great. One long night of babysitting it was.

As if she could read your mind, Natasha shot you a smirk. “Come on, sourpuss. We’ve got work to do.”

There was no arguing that you were sour. You rolled your eyes as you peeled away from the wall to follow after them into the kitchen. The youngest kid, Nathaniel, was thankfully still asleep in his bouncer. He was probably your favorite of the three for this very reason–but being your favorite didn’t mean much at this point. Released at last to wreak havoc, Cooper and Lila tumbled out of your sight into the living room, raised voices still audible over the sound of Natasha filling a large pot with water.

“You could at least _pretend_ to be friendly,” she said after she had caught your eye. It was a gentle rebuke, and that gentleness embarrassed you. Unfortunately, you weren’t embarrassed enough to try to make amends.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Believe me. Everyone around here knows that.”

The color in your face deepened as you looked away. She didn’t press the subject further. Somehow, this sort of homey place didn’t unbalance _her_ at all. The Black Widow had a family. Extended though it might have been, she clearly belonged here, making macaroni and cheese for a couple of kids now wrestling on the floor, if the noises coming from the room next door were any indication. Nothing you could give her. That was for sure.

“Hey.” Her voice broke into your musings. Maybe Natasha couldn’t read your mind after all, because there was no way she would respond to what you were thinking with, “Set the table for me?”

Sighing, you took the stack of plates and started to get the table ready for dinner. “Can’t believe I’m babysitting on our anniversary,” you muttered.

“It’s Clint and Laura’s anniversary, too. Who else are they going to get to look after the kids?”

“Tony?” you suggested.

Natasha shot you a look that very plainly told you what she thought of _that_ idea. The look did not last long; her attention shifted quickly to the jeering issuing from the living room. “Lila! Cooper! Settle down, please. Why don’t you come in here and color?”

A few groans were the only protests given. Natasha watched from over the steaming pot of noodles as the two trooped back into the kitchen. Only after she had seen them settled at the nearby card table did she turn her attention back to you. She looked particularly beautiful in the glow cast by the Bartons’ old fashioned lanterns. Given that Natasha had already ruined the romance of the evening, however, you weren’t about to inform her of this. She raised a pointed eyebrow.

"You color, too.”

Though you glared at her, you did as told, sitting down with the kids and reaching for a piece of paper. Cooper glanced at you as you picked up a red crayon, but said nothing. For a few minutes, there was wonderful silence. Just bubbling water, crayons scraping, and the tiny noises indicating that Nathaniel was about to wake up.

“See?” Natasha said. “Isn’t this nice? It’s like we’re playing house.”

You gaped at her. _That_ was what this was about? It was true that since the Ultron attack, Natasha had been acting a little strange, but you’d never have guessed she had been overcome by the idea of _motherhood_. Something, you realized, you couldn’t give her. What was more, it was something you didn’t _want_. Kids and a house and a farm and a family-sized SUV…You didn’t belong here. Suddenly Natasha did.

Something of what you felt must have shown on your face, because Natasha suddenly looked concerned. Luckily, this was right when Nathaniel opened his eyes, remembered that he was a baby, and burst into furious tears. For once, you could sympathize.

“I’ve got it,” you said quickly, already on your feet. You didn’t look at Natasha, not when you unlatched the kid from his bouncer, not when you hoisted him into your arms, and not when you left the room. She did not need to see the furious tears sparkling in your own eyes. With Nathaniel still squalling into your shoulder, you slipped through the front door and out onto the porch. Just before the door slammed shut behind you, you heard Lila ask:

“Aunt Natasha, what’s wrong with [Name]?”

You were thankful that you didn’t have to hear Natasha’s answer. It was probably something along the lines of _she’s a spoilsport_ , or _she’s having her time of the month_. Not that the latter wasn’t true, but _God_. You’d been looking forward to this for ages, your anniversary with Natasha. It was a big deal. You’d been all set to take her out somewhere nice, but then you’d brought it up and she’d assured you she already had other plans. Too bad they just turned out to be babysitting her best friend’s kids. Even that wouldn’t have been so bad, but the way Natasha smiled at these children was a way she hadn’t smiled at you in months, not since the whole Ultron thing.

It was true that if you hadn’t been PMSing you probably wouldn’t have been crying over it, though. Trying to stem the flow of your hot, angry tears, you gently rocked Nathaniel back and forth, bouncing slightly as you turned from side to side. You’d had plenty of cousins growing up; it wasn’t like you had no idea of how to take care of babies. You just didn’t _want_ any. You had always thought Natasha felt the same. Even if she hadn’t been with you, she still couldn’t have had kids. Sure, she’d confessed to you how awful the whole sterilization process was, but never that she regretted not being able to get pregnant. Her past had hurt, but it made her who she was. It made her the woman you loved. Now it looked like she wanted what Clint had, and what Clint had wasn't anything you had to offer.

The door behind you opened, and you hastily ducked your head away from the light. Nathaniel might have stopped crying by then, but you hadn’t. You weren’t sobbing or anything like that. Your tears were just pretty obvious. Whoever it was coming outside to check on the baby, you didn’t want them seeing you like that. You already looked pathetic enough.

“Hey.” Natasha stepped up to place her hands on rail around the porch, her eyes fixed on some dark point on the horizon. You glanced at her just long enough to feel your heart squeeze, then went back to trying to rock Nathaniel back to sleep.

“Where are the kids?” you asked quietly, relieved to hear that your voice didn’t sound too scratchy. 

She turned her head and smiled at you. “Inside. Cooper can keep an eye on Lila for a little while. I don’t think anyone’s going to try to blow up the house while I’m out here talking to you.”

You wouldn’t be too sure. Then again, this place was pretty well hidden, and you didn’t doubt that Tony had something going that could alert someone to trouble as soon as it appeared. He might have pretended to hate most everyone he came into contact with, but the Avengers were people he cared about. Great. Now if something _did_ happen while Natasha was out here and Tony didn’t have a way to send help, you were going to feel bad about _that_ , too.

“Want me to take the kid?” Natasha said, holding out her arms. You took a step back and shook your head. The slowly quieting baby was the only thing keeping you together right now. She sighed and slid her hands back into position on the rail. Things went quiet again, save for Nathaniel’s occasional whimpering. “I’m sorry, [Name].”

You swallowed, finally getting rid of the last of your tears. Although getting broken up with at Clint Barton’s house on your anniversary wasn’t what you had planned, you weren’t going to give Natasha the satisfaction of seeing how crushed you were when it happened. “Sorry about what?” you asked. Your voice did not have the right amount of venom.

“About dragging you here,” she answered. Her eyes were now on your face. You had to look away again. “I thought you’d like it. We never have the chance to do this.”

“Babysit?”

“Play normal.”

“Play–” Your laugh turned slightly hysterical toward the end, before you choked it out into a splutter. “Natasha, this _isn’t_ normal for us. There’s no happy ever after at the end for us. No wedding, no first house, no family. I can’t give you that. If that’s what you want–”

“Who said that’s what I want?” Natasha asked, her brow creased. Then a look of comprehension dawned on her face, and she smiled, coming closer. Much too close, in fact. She could probably see the tell-tale trail of tears on your cheeks and the redness in your eyes. “I _have_ a family, [Name]. I have Clint and I have Laura. I have Lila and Cooper and Nathaniel. And I have you.”

“Yeah, fat lot of good that–”

The door banging open again interrupted you. You looked wildly around, half-expecting the house to have blown up, only to see Lila and Cooper standing there, beaming up at you and Natasha.

“Cooper, I thought I told you and Lila to stay inside,” Natasha said. “It’s late. I need you to start getting ready for bed.”

“We will,” Cooper said. “We just–”

“For you,” Lila said, holding out a piece of paper. She was looking straight at you. Your eyes darted to Natasha, but she had no suggestions for you. After adjusting Nathaniel in your arm, you reached for it and pulled the paper up for you and Natasha to see.

_Aunt Natasha_ read the scrawled handwriting above a stick figure with red hair. Next to her stood a second figure, one with tiny [color] dots for eyes. It had a caption, too: _Aunt [Name]._ You felt your heart skip a beat.

“Mommy and Daddy said it was their Big Day today,” Lila explained. “Thank you for coming on your Big Day, too.”

Your mouth felt too dry to work. “I, uh…” you began, but Cooper had already taken Lila’s hand and was leading her back inside.

“Brush your teeth!” Natasha called after them. Then the door swung shut, leaving you, Nathaniel, and Natasha outside with the crickets. Aunt [Name]. What were you even supposed to do with that? Had Natasha told them to do that? But she was looking down at the picture with a look of fond amazement. After a moment of gazing, she turned her eyes up to your face, a smile curling up the corners of her lips.

“I still don’t want kids,” you said defensively. Natasha’s smile turned into a full-fledged grin, and she straightened to kiss you on the cheek.

“We don’t need kids,” she said. “We’ve got a family. Aunt [Name]. Don’t you like it?”

“I don’t…know.”

“You don’t have to decide right away.” Natasha’s voice was a murmur. Her grin was gone, but there was nothing inherently unhappy in her expression when she kissed you again. “I love you. That hasn’t changed.”

“Love you, too, Nat,” you said, albeit grudgingly. Really, though, this wasn’t so bad. A bit of quiet, a bit of time with Natasha–these really were things you didn’t have a lot of those days. She’d been busy with Steve lately, after all, and Wanda and Sam and Rhodey and Vision. Everyone but you. Maybe this wasn’t _ideal_ , but you had everything you needed. Slowly, you reached for her hand. Natasha didn’t look back at you, but she wrapped hers warmly around yours in response. Maybe, just for her, you could play normal every once and awhile. On your anniversaries, at least. In a few years, it might even involve less baby drool.


	35. Tornado [Thor Odinson]

Despite assurances to the contrary, dating the prince of Asgard hadn’t really been any different than dating an average human man. There had been the usual romances, the usual arguments–just perhaps with the flamboyance that only could really be claimed by a species of demi-gods. Moving in with him had been very much the same as well. Turned out even princes left the toilet seat up half the time. Marrying him? Exactly the same as most girls imagined, albeit with a touch more lightning and a lot more armor worn by the groom’s guests. Having children with Thor Odinson? _That_ was different, and quite possibly the most disastrous decision you had ever made in your entire life.

“No, I hear you, Skye! I–we’re coming, okay? We’re coming! What was that? You can’t–Skye? Skye? Are you still there?” You tore the phone pressed to your ear away, but even it could not tell you whether or not the woman on the other end of the line was still listening. Even if she was, she was likely to hear the exact same thing you did: the squalling of a 16-month-old as her father attempted to coral her. Joining this noise was the sounds of encouragement coming from her sister in the living room. “Skye? I’ve got to go! We’ll see you in an hour! Thor,” you added as you hung the phone up and your husband stumbled into view, “we’re going to be late.”

“I am,” Thor said, wincing as Visna yanked at handfuls of his hair from her perch on his shoulders, “well aware of that, [Name], however the girls are proving quite–” A crash that sounded like the armchair turning over for the eighth time this week interrupted him. A brief pause followed then: “recalcitrant,” he finished.

“No kidding. Earlier–Lífa!” Having finished whatever she was doing in the living room, Visna’s twin sister marched swiftly past you and Thor on her way to yet another disaster area. The grab you made at her missed and soon you were after her again. “Just get Visna to bed!” you shouted at him as you raced after your second daughter. “The sitter will be here any minute!”

“I’ll try,” he answered, though he did not sound very confident about his ability to do so. You had no time to worry about _him_ however, when your task was just as dangerous as his.

Lífa led you on a merry chase all the way back to your home office. When you finally cornered her, she had already managed to shove the desk nearly all the way to the opposite wall. Computer cords and papers and files littered the floor. You darted forward to snatch her up, but even her squirming attempts to get free were too much for your feeble mortal arms. “Thor!”

You were pretty sure you could hear him trying to get downstairs, but with Visna in tow, that wasn’t likely to happen fast. The twins might have taken after you, with their long [color] hair and the way they smiled, but they were Thor in every other aspect. Even their uncle, the one time you had gone to visit him, had declared them to be so–especially Lífa. Unfortunately, you were never going to get any helpful tips from Loki, since Lífa's treatment of her cousin Sleipnir meant the four of you were technically banned from Asgard until the girls could learn the meaning of the word _no_. At the rate they were going, you estimated that would be around the age of seven, if ever at all.

“[Name], I am–what happened in here?” Thor asked. Visna was still with him, now in his arms, struggling every bit as hard as her sister to break from her restraints. Thankfully she was having a more difficult time. Lífa would free any second now.

“Your daughter happened,” you answered, shoving the protesting girl into his chest. “Did you fix the living room?”

“I didn’t have the time. If we want them to sleep–”

Thor could, perhaps, handle one of the girls, but two at once was asking too much. They burst free at the same time, and upon hitting the floor did not cry like normal children, but immediately ran off giggling toward the kitchen, screaming “pot” as they went. You buried your face in your hands. No, you were _not_ ready to find your kitchenware strewn across the house. You had only just got it back in its proper place after the last time. Frankly, the twins learning to walk was the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

“Thor, we have to–”

“I know! Let’s–”

“If we head them off here–”

“Then–”

The doorbell rang. You both froze. The color faded from his cheeks as you could feel it draining from yours. Suddenly, you were both off like rockets, both in different directions. “Just get them in the same room!” you shouted over your shoulder as you ripped the front door open. There stood a curiously blinking woman in her mid-twenties. “Darcy,” you breathed. “Thank God.”

“Yep, your hero is here,” she said, tossing her dark hair behind her as she crossed the threshold. “Heard Skye wanted you and the hubby for some big SHIELD recruit thing. You know, you can just _ask_ me to sit. You don’t have to go through Jane anymore. I think I’m pretty much the only qualified sitter you know these days. After all, since Steve and Sharon–what the heck happened in here? I didn’t hear about any tornadoes hitting this place.”

You were almost grateful for the mess, since it got Darcy to pause long enough to take a breath. “We’ll only be gone for a few hours,” you informed her as you weaved your way through the upturned furniture toward the sound of pans being thrown against the kitchen walls. “If you can get them to sleep, great. If not, that’s fine. Lífa will probably want fed a few times, and we’ve got some food she likes in the fridge. Visna will usually whatever her sister’s having.”

“Right, right. Chill, chill,” Darcy said as she patted you absently on the shoulder. “Hey girls! How are my favorite little freaks of nature?”

As soon as Darcy’s voice cut through the tumult, Visna stopped throwing things. Lífa stopped trying to pound at her father’s face. They both stopped, immediately, to hold their arms out toward her. Darcy got to Visna first and hefted her into her arms. At Thor placing Lífa on her feet, she instantly toddled over to grip Darcy’s leg.

“Come on, you two. Pajamas. I’ve got some great new stories to tell. You wouldn’t believe the shit Coulson has me doing. I mean, crap.”

As Darcy’s continuous stream of words faded up the stairs toward the bedrooms, you slumped with relief against the wall. Quiet. When was the last time you had heard quiet? Not in nearly a year and four months, you were pretty sure. While you were enjoying this lack of noise, Thor came up and brushed your arm.

“If we wish to meet Skye in time for her session, we had best leave now,” he reminded you. All you could do in response was groan. There was so much to clean up here, and no matter what Skye said each and every time you and Thor agreed to help her, there would always wind up _some_ crisis to keep you from home longer than you planned.

“Or we could take a nap,” you said softly, eyes already drooping. It was said in jest; you knew you and Thor had a responsibility to help Skye out, and Thor was nothing if not aware of his responsibilities. Further silence, however, met your ears. When you opened your eyes, Thor was drooping against the wall next you.

“A nap,” he said, “sounds wonderful.”

Your eyes met. Sure, Darcy was here and the place was still a wreck, but you could not even remember the last time you’d had a good night sleep. No communication was needed. Thor reached out, put one massive hand around yours, and then, supporting each other, you slipped back upstairs and into your dark bedroom. Neither of yo so much as bothered changing clothes. Together you collapsed onto the mattress, and together you closed your eyes to fall into the slumber your bodies had been craving for months.


	36. Dreamers [Steve Rogers]

What in God’s name did Steve think he was doing, sitting out there in the dark with a locked door his only excuse for company? There was no one at home, and nothing to do but think, and thinking was _precisely_ what he had come out here to avoid. If he was going to think, he might as well have stayed at home. At least there he would have been warm. He wouldn’t have been running the risk of catching cold again either. Instead, he was stuck outside with the exact same thoughts he’d been stuck with back at his rundown apartment a few blocks over. Steve didn’t know what he had been expecting. It was Friday! Of course no one was home. Just because he was a social pariah…

“Aw, come on, Charlie. Charlie!” Steve stiffened at the sound of approaching protest. A familiar female voice lifted into the air, then came back down into a stream of giggles. “My parents could see.”

“You said they were out, too. What's the harm?” returned a low male voice.

“We’ve been out all night, Charlie. A girl’s gotta have some pride.”

“You think I’m some sort of scoundrel,” said Charlie over the of footsteps now drawing nearer and nearer. Steve looked about. There was nowhere to hide. Oh, jeez. You had some sort of guy over. You didn’t want to deal with Steve, too. Maybe if he just–

“Don’t be like that. But Daddy could be home any minute, you know.” There was no mistaking that tone. Steve had never had it used on _him_ , but boy had he heard it, time and time again coming from Bucky’s dates. Despite all your objections, you were going to let the guy in, and here Steve was sitting on your doorstep. If ever there was a miserable night to be him, it was that night. Shuffling away from the approaching couple only resulted in his being highlighted by the nearby streetlamp. There was a sudden gasp of “Steve?” and he knew he had been found out.

A scuffle of hushed voices followed. Steve, too busy trying to make himself smaller than usual, understood none of it until he heard a very firm, “Go home, Charlie.” More muttering, but then the sound of receding footsteps met Steve’s ears. One eye popped open to make sure that you, too, had left, but he found you standing there at your door, key in the lock, waiting for him to look at you. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in.”

Blush flooded Steve’s pale cheeks. “I wouldn’t want to…Your parents aren’t home. I couldn’t…”

“Steve. You’re practically family.”

He winced at the phrase, and took another brave stab at an excuse. "I don't want to interrupt your date. Go after him. Don't worry about me." Now that he had come this far, he suddenly didn’t want to go any further. What were you supposed to do about this whole damn mess anyhow?

“Who, Charlie?” You rolled your eyes as you crossed the threshold, then fixed your gaze expectantly upon Steve. “Don’t you go feeling sorry for Charlie, Steven Rogers. He’ll be fine.”

“But…”

“ _I’ll_ be fine. Now would you come inside so I can shut the door?”

Shifting awkwardly in one place did nothing to spur Steve on to any sort of greater excuse-making. Besides, it _was_ cold, and no matter what he was feeling, you were a lady, and he was not about to make a lady freeze. He looked away from you and sent nervous fingers through his hair as he followed you inside. “You don’t like him?” he asked finally, unable to keep the hopeful note entirely out of his voice. What it mattered if you didn’t, though, not even he could say.

“Nah, I’m not all that crazy about Charlie,” you answered, hanging Steve's coat up on the rack by the entrance. He caught a glimpse of your nose wrinkling before you turned entirely away. “He’s pushy.”

Steve snorted. “Bucky’s pushy.”

“Might be a reason we’re not seeing each other anymore, then. Ever think of that, Mr. Rogers?”

Normally your carefree teasing set him at ease immediately. There was something about this, though, all of it–Bucky and Charlie and you and Steve–that prevented Steve from taking his usual comfort in things. He felt like he was shaking to pieces inside, and that at any minute his hands and feet would follow suit. Seeming to sense the tension in the air, you frowned. “Stevie, you okay?”

“Fine,” Steve answered shortly. You didn’t look convinced, but apparently figured pushing it wasn’t the way you wanted your evening to go. Instead of speaking, you wordlessly took his hand with all the ease of childhood friendship. That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? You weren’t some mud-spattered tomboy at play anymore. No, you were dame, a right grownup woman, and Steve still small, still insecure, still lonely. You had no idea what you were doing to him, just leading him to the cozy kitchen like that and pressing him into a chair. He hoped you never would. He didn’t want to put that on you.

Once you saw him settled, you turned to the icebox, pulled something out, and a set a pot to cooking on the stove. Steve stared off into space all the while, that incessant question of _why_ still plaguing him. As a result, he almost didn’t hear you when you asked, “So what’d you come out here to talk about?”

“What?” Steve said. “I didn’t–What makes you think I came out here to talk?”

“I’m not stupid.” You shot him a look that he only ever got from you or Bucky. Bucky, God. What was Steve going to do? “When’s the last time you showed up outside in the dark on a Friday night just for old time’s sake? Or am I supposed to believe you’d really go that far for a bowl of Ma’s stew?”

Was _that_ what you were doing? “[Name], I don’t need fed. I know Buck and I don’t got a lot, but–”

“Just answer the question, Steve.”

There was something in your tone that forbade arguing. He gulped, then looked down. For a long while, the only sounds in the kitchen were the soft popping of the stew on the stove. Steve could feel your eyes on him-eyes that were never going to soften in that way he imagined, eyes that weren’t ever going to look at him as anything but a little brother. No, come a few months, and he would be alone. You married and–and, “Bucky enlisted,” Steve whispered.

“ _Enlisted_?” you repeated in a completely unexpected tone. He looked up just in time to see you blink and push your lips together. “I thought he–oh.” Steve’s forehead furrowed. You already knew? You must have to; you weren’t acting like your whole world was ending–but maybe _yours_ wasn’t. You had Charlie and your parents, and who knew how many other beaus waiting for letters across the sea? You didn’t need Bucky, and Heaven knew you didn’t need Steve. There was a heat building behind his eyes, and hastily he lifted a wrist to shield his face. Too late. You were already sitting in the chair across from him.

“Just–just make the stew,” Steve said, relieved to hear that his voice wasn’t cracking. That was the _last_ thing he needed, you to see him cry when you looked so poised and put together yourself. Why’d he have to come on date night? Why’d Bucky have to wait until now to tell him? Why was Steve trapped like this while everyone he knew grew up and away from him?

“It’s heating," you assured him. "It’s not gonna blow up. I know how to heat stew, you know?” More teasing, more casual reminders that once you and Steve and Bucky had been inseparable. Then came the day he’d found you and Bucky kissing in the movie theater, and things had never been the same since. Not even _after_ you and Bucky had stopped kissing regularly. “Hey, Steve. It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know how you can know that.”

“Come on,” you said with something of a smile on your face. “It’s _Bucky_. When’s he not been the luckiest man in Brooklyn? If anybody’s gonna come home, he will.”

“Bet a lot of dames said that, when their men shipped off.”

“Bucky’s not my man.”

“What about Charlie? What if _he_ went?”

You shrugged. “I think I’d be relieved more than anything else.”

It was his turn to shoot you a look, and your smile faded quickly. After that, stew boiling was all he could hear. Was there really nothing else to say? Clearly he’d been delusional when he’d decided coming over here would be of any help to him at all. Steve wanted to leave, but he also wanted to stay. He wished, more than anything, that the news upset you just as much as it had him. It was alright for women to cry–expected, really. Then _he_ could comfort _you_ , instead of the other way around. He’d already mucked that up, though, by tearing up earlier. Just further proof that he was a weakling, a freak, that these feelings he’d been burdened with since you’d blossomed were disgusting. Someone like _Steve_ shouldn't have been in love with someone like you.

"How do you know,” he said again, desperate for any sort of comfort, “that Bucky will come home?”

Your eyes drifted past Steve and into the living room behind him. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly. “I guess I just have to dream.”

“Dream,” Steve echoed with yet another snort. “Guess that’s just what the two of us are. A couple of dreamers.”

“What do you dream about, Stevie?”

His eyes snapped over to yours. There had never been a more opportune moment than this. What if he told you? What if Steve finally said all he dreamed about was the three of you together again, just with less of Bucky kissing you and more of you kissing Steve? This night sure as Hell couldn’t get any worse.

But he was Steve. And you were you.

He combed his fingers through his hair a second time while he tried to think. Steve had never been very good at lying, though, so the words came slow, and with more truth to them than Steve would have liked to admit: “I want to go with him.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth fell open. “ _What_?”

“I want to go, too. There’s no reason I shouldn’t. There’s nothing here for me. I haven’t got any prospects.”

“Nothing? Steve, what about _me_?”

Somewhere deep down, he was aware that you were a lot more upset about him going than Bucky. Steve was small, though. Small and sickly and used to having you or Bucky around to look after him. Why wouldn’t you worry? Bucky could take care of himself. Steve would probably just go over and get himself gassed immediately. “You’ll be married soon,” he answered impatiently. “Then you’ll have a husband and kids to look after. You’re not gonna have time for me.”

“I’ll always have time for you,” you said, offended. That was just kindness, though; Steve wasn’t stupid. He waved away your frustration.

“You’re not gonna want me around. I’ll just embarrass you. But if I go, then I might have a chance at meaning something. I could do something–help. Not like I can here. They don’t need you to stay alive that long in the army, just long enough to–”

Your hands reached across the table and snatched both his up again. Steve broke off, uncertain. There was color in your cheeks that shone vivid even in the dark kitchen. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why until you found your voice:

“Steve,” the word whooshed out of you in one excited breath, “I know what we’ll do. You and me. At the end of all this, when it’s all done.”

“What’s that?” he asked, hesitant.

“We’ll marry each other!”

Steve plumb near fell right off his chair. Even having avoided that massive embarrassment, he could only sputter for several seconds after this proclamation. To hear a dame even jokingly propose suggest a thing–practically literally propose! It wasn’t right, and if your father had been home, there’d have been hell to pay. Thank the Lord in Heaven you were inside with him, not out in public where someone might have heard you spouting such nonsense. It made it sound like you _knew_. Sure, knowing Steve Rogers of all people was sweet on you ought to have been mortifying, but to tease him like this–!

“Don’t say things like that, [Name]. Somebody’ll think you’re serious, and then where will you be?”

“But I _amyour_ dream. No one could say no to me marryin’ a war hero! It’s perfect, Stevie!”

There were stars in your eyes. Lordy, but hadn’t Steve imagined some dame looking at him like that for years now. He tried to imagine the future you were seeing, but…he was still Steve. He wasn’t coming home, and you weren’t marrying him. Dreams didn’t come true, not in this day and age. “Thanks, [Name], but I couldn’t hold you to that. You’ll find a nice guy while I’m away, and then you’ll regret ever saying stuff like this.”

You blinked, and the stars disappeared. “Steven, don’t you _like_ me?”

Steve opened his mouth, entirely unsure of what to say. These were entirely new waters, brought on by your grief at Bucky leaving and Steve interrupting your date. He was a man; he had to make you see sense, even if your grand illusion was appealing to him, too. “‘Course I like you," he started carefully. "We’re friends, aren’t we? It’s just–”

He was saved further ridicule by the front door opening. Twisting in his seat as you half-rose from yours, Steve saw your parents stepping in from the cold, fresh snow flakes clinging to their coats and hair. Your mother’s eyes fell upon you first. “[Name]? Do you have a visitor?”

Hearing this, your father stepped around her. Steve sank slightly in his seat, feeling his cheeks heat up even worse than they had all night. Then your father beamed. “Don’t you worry, dear. It’s only Steven. How you doing, Steven?”

“Steve came over to tell me the news, Papa,” you supplied in Steve’s silence. _Only_ Steve. Didn’t that just seal the deal? _Only Steve_ , only the kid that [Name] used to get riled up at and with and for back before she’d been tamed. A little brother. A sickly friend. No chance in Hell, so why worry over finding his only daughter sitting in the dark with him? “Jim's going off to war. Enlisted, apparently."

“Did he?” your father boomed. “Good man. Need all the good men we can get over there. Now don’t let us interrupt you two. We’re just coming in from the dance. Have you heard the latest jazz, Steven? Excellent stuff. Even [Name] here says so. Maybe she can take you next time, set you up with her friend. What is it, [Name]? Miranda?”

“Actually,” Steve said, standing up before you could inform your father he was talking about Melinda and that you'd given up setting him up with girlfriends three years ago when Doris had thrown a fit upon seeing him in person, “I was just leaving.”

“Leaving?" you said. "Oh, Steve, but you haven’t even had any stew!”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get something at home.” He was already at the door, already pulling on his thin coat. Your parents looked on with curious expressions that were much easier to digest than your own stricken features behind them. Steve looked away as he pulled the door open. “Thanks for the sympathy, [Name]. And the hospitality, Mrs. [L Name]. See you around.”

He ducked outside before anyone could insist on his staying. No, coming here had been a mistake. It would have been better to have stayed with Bucky, even if Bucky didn’t understand. It would have been better if Steve had never heard your suggestion at all. Because now he knew, no matter how much he told himself it would never happen, it would be the only dream he had to get him through the entire war. And in the end, you probably wouldn't remember even sharing yours.


	37. Postcards [Bruce Banner]

The lamp in Savanah’s room was still on when you crept down the hall that evening to check on her. Your serious, seven-year-old daughter rarely stayed up past her bedtime of 8:00. Most seven-year-olds would put up a fuss, but not her. She understood the consequences of what happened when she stayed up too late–something drilled into her by her father from probably before her memory even began. If the lights were on still at 8:30, it usually meant that something was wrong.

You knocked quietly, just in case. Yes, the door was slightly ajar and there really wasn’t much a girl her age could want to hide at such an hour, but such carefulness was a long-learned behavior in your tiny family. When you pushed the door open, there sat your daughter in her bed, peeking up at you through her dark, curly hair. “Hey, Mom,” she said softly.

“Hey, honey. What are you doing still up?”

“Am I in trouble?”

Savanah was always worried about whether or not she was in trouble. Her father was strict with her, out of habit. You understood what he wanted, but when he was gone, you couldn’t help but let her leash out just a little–even though she expected you to tighten it at every turn. “No, you’re not in trouble,” you answered as you stepped inside the room. “Are you feeling all right?”

She nodded mutely, then returned her attention to something clutched in her tiny hands. You leaned against the door frame and watched. Savanah looked remarkably like her father–even now, [skin tone] and small. Even now, the brightness and bubbliness that so defined her from him shone through. And yet, the pout on her face grew ever more pronounced as she flipped that something over repeatedly with her fingers.

“Do you think,” Savanah began hesitantly, “Do you think that Dad will ever come home?”

Dad, not Daddy. Will he come home, not _when_ will he come home. All asked so sedately. Your little girl was hardly seven on the inside–so you thought, until she looked up at you again and you could take in the obvious worry in her wide brown eyes. It was a worry you shared, and a worry you wished she didn’t have to feel at all. Her emotions could be freer when her father was away, but what was the point when all she felt was anxious?

Wordlessly, you went to settle on the bed next to her, and just as wordlessly pressed her hair from her forehead before leaning down to kiss the smooth skin there. “You get something in the mail from Daddy today?”

Savanah held up a postcard. Normally she showed you right away when one of Bruce’s mysterious postcards turned up–they were addressed to you as well, most of the time–but today she had brought the mail in and remained unusually melancholy for the rest of the evening. You took it from her now to find a card embossed on the front with a glossy image of the Taj Mahal. The back of the postcard was almost entirely blank. The only thing written there was your address on one side and three hastily scrawled letters on the other: Be home soon.

“Looks like Daddy’s in India again,” you said, smiling as you handed back over her mail. Savanah took it, still looking morose.

“But when will he be _home_?”

You gazed at her. When _would_ Bruce be home? He always said soon, but you never knew. You never had. At first, Bruce had stuck around as often as he could. His work with the Avengers gradually stopped. He was home, and without having to worry about becoming the Hulk at the drop of a hat. Then Tony and Steve dragged him back, and before you knew it, he was either gone with them, or gone because he’d destroyed one building too many and someone was out for his blood. Not that you didn’t still love him; you’d never stop loving Bruce. But it was no way to keep up a family. If you had known seven-and-a-half years ago what things would be like…

Not that Savanah was a mistake, no. You _loved_ her. It was because of that love that you felt so terrible. Of course a little girl with her condition would find life difficult. Of course her father who had passed that condition on would find life difficult. And of course her mother who never had experienced that condition would find life difficult. But you were being selfish. Right now, all your daughter wanted to know was that her father would be okay.

“He’ll be home as soon as he can,” you said, standing to peck her on the forehead a second time. “I promise.”

She stared at her newest postcard for a moment longer, then gave you a solemn nod. “Dad promised, too. Know what else he promised me?”

“What’s that?”

“That he’ll take me with him someday. When someone finds out.”

You froze. _Bruce_. His being afraid was perfectly understandable. His being afraid for his only daughter was perfectly understandable. But it was quite another thing to make his own daughter afraid, too, _and_ his wife. You could not be brave enough for three people. The smile on your face turned brittle as ice.

“They won’t find out, sweetheart,” you said, with your hand stuck in place on the lamp switch. How could they? Even with Bruce absent, you took pains to ensure that your daughter could not be discovered to have the same sort of condition as her father. She went to a school with other children that were “special” like she was, rarely left the house except to go to said school, and kept to herself in public. Savanah had never had an accident, not since she was too young to control herself. While your thoughts raced through better means to protect her, she looked up at you, and you realized with a jolt that she was not afraid. Not at all.

“They will,” she said seriously. “But it’s okay. You’ll still love me. And so will Dad. Right?”

Now Savanah seemed uncertain. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You were the mom; you had to answer this the right way. “Of course I’ll still love you.”

“Good.” Savanah sat up just long enough to place her postcard on her bedside table, propped up against the lamp so as to keep Bruce's handwriting facing her. She gazed at it as she settled back into her sheets. Then she looked back up at you. “I’ll send you lots of postcards when I go with him, Mommy. Promise.”

“Thank you.” It was a miracle this word came out so steady. One more kiss before you turned out the light, then you slipped back out into the hallway. The steady glow of Savanah's nightlight through the crack in the door led you back to your empty bedroom with its empty bed. Only when you’d fallen onto it, face first into a pillow, did you allow the tears to spill out. First Bruce, now Savanah. If you lost both of them…

_‘Damn you, Bruce.’_

Or damn your past self. Bruce had warned you. You couldn’t say he hadn’t. But you had thought then that you could handle it, that you could marry him, that you could give him the family he’d always wanted, that you could love him no matter what. Now, years later, you wondered if you were really strong enough to bear that weight.


	38. Factory [Clint Barton]

You would have expected to find the “orphanage” in the farthest reaches of the Arctic Circle. These sorts of people were so far out of the norm that surely– _surely_ –they needed ice, snow, and distance to hide themselves from unwanted surveillance. The girls weren’t supposed to be found, not before they were ready. Yet there your search had led you: not to some frozen, decrepit fortress in the middle of Siberia, but to a gated, perfectly normal building on the outskirts of a perfectly normal Russian town. Its old brick face stood motionless under a clear night strewn with stars. Just looking at the place made your stomach churn.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” you asked without bothering to turn toward your companion. Just down a short slope, just after a short jog, lay the orphanage. It seemed too easy after all this time. Clint scoffed.

“What, you were expecting a prison?” His footsteps crunched their way through the thin layer of ice on the ground as he made his way over to you. “They don’t want to escape for long. The ones that try get purged from the program.”

The bile climbed further up your throat. “She’s not dead.”

“Never said she was. You prefer the alternative?”

You didn’t have to answer. When at last you tore your gaze away from the place you’d been searching for for three years, Clint was already looking at you. His eyes were so soft that it hurt to look at them. You had to look away again. “Natasha came back,” you said, voice as brittle as the snow beneath your feet.

“Not right away,” he said. “And she’ll always have all of that in her head.”

He was right. You knew he was right. If your sister would have been happy in her godforsaken new home, you wouldn't have spent so long looking for her. It wasn’t easy, living with you, you knew that, too, but it was better than this–better than torture and programming and sterilization. The cold, clear world seemed to spin around you, as it always did when you remembered what kind of people those who had taken the last living member of your family were.

A warm weight on your shoulder startled you out of your thoughts. Lifting your head, you saw Clint not exactly smiling at you, but trying to appear comforting all the same. “At least after tonight you’ll know for sure, right?” he said, each word punctuated with a puff of fog.

You remained silent another moment longer. Your fingers wanted to tremble, your breath to escape your chest in a sob. Neither was going to happen. If you had not cried this whole long while searching for your sister, you were not going to cry now on the eve of finally finding her. No way could you risk emotions getting in the way. You were marching into that nest of spiders and pulling Emilie out. Maybe you weren’t an Avenger; maybe you weren’t even a SHIELD agent, but you _were_ the person who had convinced a man who was both to help you in your quest. Besides, if you hadn’t been capable enough in your own right to begin with, Red Room wouldn’t have ever taken an interest in your family.

“She’s not dead,” you repeated. “This time tomorrow, she’ll be at home with me, asleep. In a real bed. Without handcuffs.”

“She’ll be asleep in a bed without handcuffs at HQ, you mean,” said Clint, causing you to look sharply up at him despite your better judgement. Only then did you realize what your previous distraction had not allowed you to: He had his bow out and primed, an arrow already docked and flashing dimly against the string. You didn’t have to ask; he answered anyway. “You’re not going in there alone."

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Before you could so much as try to argue further, he was stepping past you toward the embankment that led down to the orphanage. He pulled the bow taut, stared for half a second, then– _whip!_ –the arrow went whistling through the dark until it struck the gate in front of the building. A red light began to flash at the arrow’s tip. Its owner returned his attention to you, even as he reached for another arrow. “You’re gonna go in there. You’re gonna find your sister. Then you’re gonna bring her home. Home’s the tower now. Home’s with me.”

“Clint,” you began hotly, glad you’d come at night so that he couldn’t see the heat of frustration and embarrassment in your cheeks. All he did was raise his eyebrows and wait for you to go on. You did, quietly. “I can handle this on my own.”

Clint frowned, and then nodded. “Probably,” he agreed, “but I like you and Emilie’s chances a lot more if you’ve got backup.”

“I don’t need–”

“I _know_ you don’t. Maybe Emilie does. Or maybe this isn’t the right facility and they’ve got her holed up somewhere else. You really want to be left out here in the cold by yourself if that’s the case?”

There was nothing to be said in response to that. Your single-minded focus on this lead had not allowed you to consider the possibility that it might not be the _right_ lead. And though you’d learned to rely heavily on Clint and his friends in the past year, you had sort of thought that after tonight things would go back to normal. Just you and your sister, eking out a living in Paris while you pulled the odd job to keep her in school. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what you were used to. Avenging was not.

Something of your distaste must have shown on your face, because Clint let out a quiet laugh. “There’s the look I know and love,” he said. “But you can’t heal her on your own. Trust me. I’ve been through this before. Natasha couldn't have saved herself without help, and if you really want Emilie back, you can’t do that without help either.”

You looked at him, the man that slipped into your life as easily as your tactical gear slipped over your head. A friend was not what you had asked for. A comforter was not what you had asked for. Here he was, though, Clint Barton, acting as though he belonged at your side. With an annoyed sniff, you looked away from him once again. He had done all you had wanted at the start of your partnership. Emilie was now only a few yards away. How could you ever ask him for more? You couldn’t with a clean conscience, that was for sure.

“Besides,” he went on, “girls coming out of the program seem to _really_ like ballet. Something tells me she’ll have more opportunities for that staying with us in New York, where you'll have a steady paycheck. Besides, you go back to France, I’ll miss you.”

Your head sprang up. He looked serious, which meant he was. No need to ask if he’d go that far for you; you knew Clint too well by then to doubt him. Surely you would have more money to help your sister if you took him up on his offer. That, and a whole host of other things you weren't used to having.

He caught you peering up at him and gestured with his head toward the factory of horrors. The light on the arrow was flashing so frequently as to be nearly continuous. “You gonna get that? My security override’s got a limited time span, you know.”

You knew. You just didn’t care. With or without it, you were getting inside. Another moment of serious silence passed before you grabbed Clint and kissed him–just once and fast–right on the lips.

“We’ll talk about living situations later,” you grumbled as you pushed past him. 

The last thing you heard before you dove down to get started was his chuckle and a soft, “ _sure_ we will.”

He was probably right about that, too–not that you were going to admit it. Not just then, anyway. First surviving. First Emilie. First home, wherever that was now. _Then_ you could contemplate Clint’s warm arms and his soft lips, and do so for the first time with pleasure. Until then, you actually did feel better, stronger, knowing that he was there behind you. You’d all get through this, hard as that was to imagine. When you did, Clint would be there, as he always had been.


End file.
